


Iphigenia, Destroyer of Troy

by softboypassing



Series: Blood of Heroes [1]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Character Death Fix, Gratuitous classical references, Multi, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Trans Character, Trans!Mittermeyer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softboypassing/pseuds/softboypassing
Summary: “As long as you don’t strike at the Empire again from this foundation,” Reuenthal said, grinning wolfishly.Yang shook his head. “This peace has been won at too high of a cost, on both sides. I’d like at least the next few decades to be free of bloodshed.”“There are elements in the galaxy we cannot control. I fear that the gods will demand a few more sacrifices for their altars of war and history, but,” said Reuenthal softly, thinking of wild-eyed Terraist assassins and Kaiser Reinhard lying pale and feverish in bed, unable to give commands at the height of his clash with his great rival. “I hope you’re right.”-------------Yet another fic where the main canon divergence is taking one look at e85 and saying "hmm no thank you." Deals with the events of July-December 800 U.C. Part 1 of a trilogy.
Relationships: Evangelin Mittermeyer/Wolfgang Mittermeyer, Frederica Greenhill/Yang Wenli, Wolfgang Mittermeyer/Oskar von Reuenthal
Series: Blood of Heroes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824124
Comments: 20
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue: Pax Imperii

_June 27, 800 U.C./2 N.I.C._

he chaos and noise of the party were reaching new heights, despite the severe thinning of the crowd. Someone had taken charge of the speakers and changed the original subdued classical music, first to a string of triumphant marches, and now to a thumping, pulsing beat that Yang thought wouldn’t be amiss in a Phezzani club. He wouldn’t necessarily have minded it, but it was loud enough to make his eardrums throb, even after having drank what felt like half a billion toasts to the Kaiser and to himself. People kept coming up to him and drunkenly congratulating him; a good portion of these were people he was sure he had never seen before, even when they insisted on acting as if they were bosom friends of his. It was exhausting.

Kaiser Reinhard, having participated in the obligate photographs (shaking Yang’s hand, raising a glass with his admirals and the republican senior staff, talking politely with Frederica and Julian), had retired back to his flagship, and most of the Imperial guests had followed suit. Yang regretted his absence deeply; not only did it mean his own role at the celebration became rather unclear, but also he would have dearly liked to pull the man into a quiet corner with a bottle of wine and just _talk_ to him. He was sure he would have more opportunities to meet with the Kaiser before they parted ways (Yang for the new seat of the republican government on Heinessen, Reinhard for the Imperial throne on Phezzan), but, after days of strained and intense negotiations, he sorely wanted the chance at a more intimate and casual conversation with Reinhard, of the kind that could only happen drunk after a party. It would have been a better use of the past two hours, he thought bitterly, than standing around avoiding being pulled into a dance and trying not to look bored.

Somewhere from the middle of the ballroom floor, he heard Poplin shout into a lull in the music, “Fuck the Kaiser!”

“What was that?” someone said, loud and accented. Yang winced. The Imperial officers who had remained were, to a man, the most boisterous and combative of the lot, and he wouldn’t hazard much for Poplin’s safety if they couldn’t blame the insult on his inebriation.

He had, it turned out, little cause for alarm. Craning his neck, Yang saw Dusty sidle up to the unsteady Poplin and throw an arm over his shoulder.

“Hey, Oliver, you meant _fuck_ the Kaiser in another sense, right?” Yang could only see him gesturing effusively, but his voice carried. “I mean, objectively, Kaiser Reinhard should be upheld as the new standard of beauty for lovers and poets across the galaxy. Forgive me if I’m being disrespectful to say so, but I think we can all agree on _that._ ”

“Ha, and you would be right!” boomed the Imperial officer who had spoken—Admiral Bittenfeld, Yang realized, finally putting a name and face to the voice. He clapped a hand on Poplin’s other shoulder, unbalancing the pilot further, and lifted his glass. “To the inviolable beauty of Kaiser Reinhard, may it only greaten with age!”

Dusty and Poplin’s response was lost as another wave of sound from the speakers crashed over the crowd. Yang sighed and rubbed his aching head.

“Oh, well,” he muttered under his breath, resignedly but allowing himself a bit of humor. “Seems as if you’re not alone in crushing on the Kaiser, Wen-li. Probably should just give up now before you get disappointed.”

Yang deposited his empty glass on a side table and slipped out of the vast ballroom—one of three of its scale at Iserlohn, though the republican forces had never had real occasion or inclination to use it until now. The administrative officers on both sides, however, had insisted that it would have been the only suitable venue for the banquet celebrating the signing of the peace treaty between the Galactic Empire and the Iserlohn Republican Government. There were surely countless other parties happening, in the other ballrooms and parks and clubs in the fortress, and on the ships filling the docks, as the soldiers and the population of Iserlohn all rejoiced at the end of the century-and-a-half-long conflict. Yang, of course, could not begrudge them that, although he steered himself away from the drifting sounds of revelry as he stumbled through the halls. He had no idea where he was headed, but even drunk as he was, that was no obstacle: there were information panels at every major junction, and it was easy enough to pull up a map and find your way back to familiar zones if you became lost.

The part of the fortress he found himself in now had been clearly made for the upper echelons of Imperial society. The coffered ceilings of the hallways were high and gilded, with elaborate faux-marble pilasters giving the illusion of a colonnade between the occasional grand doors and windows, through which fine chandeliers and mirrors could still be seen, glittering through the dark. Yang’s footsteps made no sound on the thick crimson carpet.

He stopped outside an abandoned officers’ club, its heavy door splashed with bright paint spelling out “FUCK THE KAISER!” and flanked with comfortable-looking benches. Yang took both of these to be a good sign, and stopped to remove his jacket and neckcloth. In the general chaos of his departure from Heinessen—had it really only been a year since then?—he had left his dress uniform behind, and had not been sorry to leave it. Unfortunately, Cazerne had insisted that he could not attend the treaty signing or the banquet in his normal-duty clothes, and had refused to listen to Yang’s protestations. The anachronism of wearing the uniform of a now-defunct military force, the incongruity and hierarchal implications of Yang being likely the only leader to wear the dress uniform (since Julian and Frederica had certainly not brought theirs), and the fact that Yang didn’t have his anyways held no water; Cazerne had even solved the last by pressing his dress uniform, which of course he _did_ have, onto Yang for the night. And so, although he would have vastly preferred to wear his regular uniform, or even just a nice suit, he had been sweating under the stiffly-ironed cotton all night and was glad for the chance to remove it. _White doesn’t even look good on me,_ he thought to himself as he cautiously balled up the jacket to keep the buttons on the inside before laying it down at the end of the bench to serve as a makeshift pillow.

It was surprisingly comfortable, and Yang briefly entertained a fantasy of going to sleep right there. He could find his way back to his quarters much more easily in the morning, once he’d sobered up. On the other hand, he had only been looking for a quiet place to think, and the bench would likely not be anywhere near as comfortable in the morning, and Frederica and Julian would freak out—especially Julian, who, since the failed Terraist assassination attempt at the start of the month, had been concerned almost to the point of paranoia about Yang’s safety. Yang had put up with the guard Julian and Schenkopf had forced on him through the course of the negotiations, but he had point-blank refused one at the banquet, and Julian had thankfully been distracted by Dusty’s and Poplin’s promise to introduce him to a girl once the festivities were underway, allowing Yang to escape his watch.

Yang’s wandering thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of raised voices, speaking Old Imperial. Startled, he half-sat up and opened his eyes. He hadn’t noticed it before, but a few panes of glass in the windows above him were broken or missing, likely from the same act of vandalism that had painted the anti-Imperial slogan on the door. It was through these holes that the voices were drifting—vaguely familiar voices.

“…let’s drop the subject,” someone was saying, in deep, resonant tones. “No reason for us to fight over a child whom we haven’t even met.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” replied another person. This voice only sounded average to Yang’s ears, unused as he was to Imperial accents, not quite as low as the other.

“Are you heading straight back to Phezzan, once we leave?” said the first voice, after a pause.

“I am, thank Odin. What about you? Aulis, right?”

“Right.” Yang wondered if he was imagining the faint bitterness in the man’s tone. He screwed up his face, thinking. He really _did_ sound familiar, and if he was going to Aulis—the most populous planet after Heinessen in the former Alliance and a major center of industry and travel, just named as the capital of the Imperial territory of Neue Land…

“Another reason to celebrate the end of this war—you’re finally officially the Governor-General of Neue Land.” There was a clink of glasses. Yang’s eyes widened. So, that first voice was Marshal Oskar von Reuenthal, the second-most powerful man in the galaxy, and one of Kaiser Reinhard’s most talented officers. They had only spoken a few times during the negotiations, and Yang was still unsure what to make of him as a person; he was handsome, in a severe and intimidating way, but seemed to never drop his coldly judgmental air, at least not publicly. Yang had assumed that he had left the party shortly after the Kaiser had—he couldn’t imagine what Reuenthal was doing shut away in this closed-down club.

“Don’t get me wrong, you deserve it, but I am sad that we won’t have as many opportunities to do this, with you so far away,” the other man continued—he must have been Wolfgang Mittermeyer, the other Imperial marshal. Yang hadn’t made any attempt to learn about the interpersonal relationships of the Imperial admiralty (that kind of thing was better left to Dusty, with his love of gossip and drama), but he had noticed that the two of them appeared inseparable, true to the intelligence that had filtered over about them during the last few years of the war. It was a little strange, he had considered, that the two most skilled tacticians underneath Kaiser Reinhard had a close friendship instead of a rivalry, but perhaps that served to strengthen the Kaiser’s authority and military power. _If I had the social capabilities and emotional intelligence to make use of my subordinates’ interpersonal dynamics in that way, maybe we wouldn’t have lost the war,_ Yang thought, half-jokingly.

“It is unfortunate. We’d better make the most of our time here, then, since _Mein Kaiser_ wants us to leave as soon as possible.” The way Reuenthal pronounced _Mein Kaiser,_ low and reverent, struck Yang for some reason, and there was a queer tone in his voice.

“Do you want to go back to the _Brunhilde,_ or did you drag me to this empty, vandalized club for a reason?”

“I thought it would be fun, with the operative word being ‘empty.’ Also, I am fairly sure it’s the one we almost got in a fight in, back when we were on Iserlohn for the Fourth Tiamat Battle, I think.”

“Oskar, I never knew you were such a damn romantic.”

“You know you’re the only person who could ever accuse me of that.”

Yang waited for the conversation to continue, but there was only the clink of glasses being set down on wood, and then rustling, quiet sounds of movement. His curiosity piqued, Yang sat up slowly and cautiously to look in, not wanting to alert them to the fact that he’d been eavesdropping on their conversation.

The club was, of course, nice: a grand piano in the corner, and elaborate curtains and tapestries on the walls. A dim light was on by the bar at the back of the club, illuminating the large room just enough for Yang to tell what was going on, but not enough to have made him think it was occupied from the hall. All the low tables were empty, their chairs upside down on the tabletops, except for one which bore two empty wineglasses and a large bottle that looked as if it had been stolen out of the bar’s stores. A pair of red and blue marshal’s cloaks were draped over an armchair, but their owners were both standing. Mittermeyer, his hair a shining spot of dark gold amid the shadows, was leaning back against the pool table, his arms around Reuenthal. They were kissing, fiercely. As Yang watched, mouth agape in shock and sudden understanding, Reuenthal pushed his thigh between Mittermeyer’s legs and purred something inaudible into his ear. Reuenthal fumbled with something at their waists, then shoved his hand down the front of Mittermeyer’s pants. One or both of them shifted in a way that rattled the table, setting the balls to rolling out of their neat triangle with small clacks as they struck each other. Mittermeyer made a noise, a soft, desperate moan that went straight to Yang’s groin. He quickly and silently stood and stepped away from the window, feeling his pulse pound hotly in his ears.

He stumbled back the way he’d came, struggling both to keep his footsteps in a straight line and to process through the implications of what he’d seen. It was shocking—wasn’t Mittermeyer married? Didn’t Reuenthal have a reputation as a ladies’ man in the court?—but, in retrospect, not entirely unexpected, considering that they had apparently been close friends for over a decade. Yang scratched at his hair, worrying at the tangle of confusion in his brain. Really, this information should change very little about his position with respect to the two; it only clarified the exact nature and level of closeness of their relationship, which should have little bearing on his dealings with the Imperial military, if he had any such dealings going forward in this new peacetime. And yet he felt strangely, inordinately anxious and embarrassed. There was guilt about invading their privacy, perhaps, but he had no intention of spreading rumors. He couldn’t discount, either, that it was playing on his complicated feelings about his own sexuality—Yang was now painfully aware that it had been a long time since he’d been intimate with another man. The image of Reuenthal pressing his lithe body to Mittermeyer, making him moan, swam up again in Yang’s mind, and he groaned to himself, suddenly aware of an aching need building inside him. He couldn’t deny it; seeing the two of them together had turned him on, despite how grossly voyeuristic the realization made him feel.

 _Maybe Frederica will still be awake if I get back soon,_ Yang thought, stopping at a map to orient himself before he turned back towards his quarters. It was an unlikely hope, but it was as much as he could cling to as he staggered home, still uncomfortably aroused and his vision blurred with exhaustion and drunkenness.

* * *

_June 28, 800 U.C./2 N.I.C._

he high drone of the alarm brushed up against, and then cut fully through, Reuenthal’s foggy state of hungover half-sleep. He reached over to turn it off, and then lay in bed, staring at the wall, until the pressure behind his eyes grew agonizing enough that he had to do something about it. Stiffly, he uncurled himself from underneath the covers and shuffled to the bathroom, where he filled his cupped hands with water from the tap and swallowed several cold mouthfuls, then dashed another handful on his face. Feeling slightly more human, he straightened and returned to the bedroom. Mittermeyer had left about an hour ago (waking Reuenthal in the process) to finish coordinating repairs on the fleet. They had ended up returning to Reuenthal’s quarters on the _Brunhilde_ after their enjoyable sojourn in the abandoned sections of Iserlohn, with the intention of going to sleep then. Of course, they hadn’t actually _slept_ for some time, caught up in the general celebratory mood, although by then they had been far too drunk to physically accomplish much. Reuenthal almost regretted it now, since it meant he was going to have to operate on only a few hours of shallow sleep all day. Almost.

Thankfully, he had few responsibilities today. He had a meeting with his subordinates to discuss whether his fleet was going to return to Heinessen with the republican forces first, to aid with the departure of the Imperial administrators still there, or if they would go straight to Aulis, but that was not until the afternoon. Now that he was awake, he didn’t feel like going back to sleep. Reuenthal had just made up his mind to spend the morning relaxing as much as he could, when his eyes lighted on the folded white jacket on the chair beside his bed.

As they had been leaving the club last night, Mittermeyer had noticed the jacket on a nearby bench, and picked it up to discover it was from a Free Planets Alliance dress uniform, clearly from a drunk soldier who had been wandering the halls. Reuenthal had shrugged, uncaring, but Mittermeyer insisted that they try to return it, in the interest of promoting continued good feeling between the two forces. Neither of them had been sober enough to do anything about it in the moment, but they had brought it back with them in the hopes of finding its owner in the morning. Evidently, Mittermeyer had forgotten it when he went out, and now it was left to Reuenthal to deal with. He sighed, and walked over to unfold and examine the jacket.

There were no medals in it, aside from the orange-flagged pin on the breast. The cloth was badly wrinkled from the night it had spent balled up on the bench. Half-heartedly cursing Mittermeyer’s conscientious instincts, Reuenthal shook it out, searching for a name tag or rank insignia—and froze, overcome with a confused mix of frustration and excitement and panic.

On the collar was the unmistakable heavy golden bar of a marshal.

There was only one marshal in the republican forces.

Reuenthal composed himself, neatly refolded the jacket, and replaced it on the chair so he could dress in a clean regular-duty uniform. He went to his office and rang for an orderly to bring him coffee, both of which appeared in short order. As he drank, he opened his computer and, after a few minutes of searching, found Marshal Yang Wen-li’s contact information and started writing a message.

_Dear Marshal Yang,_

_I hope that this message finds you well. With this new peace officially finalized, I must confess that I have been looking forward to the chance to converse with one of the two greatest minds of this era, and I was sorry to have missed you at the banquet last night. However, there is still some time before we depart, and I wanted to ask if I could interest you in coffee with me on the_ Brunhilde _later this morning. I also happen to have come into possession of something of yours, and I would like the chance to return it to you._

_Best,_

_Marshal Oskar von Reuenthal_

It took Yang over two hours to respond.

_Hello Marshal Reuenthal,_

_I am deeply flattered by your invitation. Unfortunately, I must decline your offer of coffee, but I will gladly come over for tea if you have any. :) Is 1100 a good time for you?_

_\-- Yang Wen-li_

Reuenthal was unsure whether to consider the informality of Yang’s reply cringeworthy or endearing, but he sent a message back confirming that yes, he could provide tea and that eleven was a good time for him. He called for his orderly again—a wide-eyed cadet named Heinrich, who hung on Reuenthal’s every word with an air of awed worship—and asked him to prepare a small brunch for the visiting marshal, and to see if he could find the best tea they had in the ship’s stores.

Yang knocked on the door at a quarter past eleven. Reuenthal stood and saluted him as he entered, and Yang awkwardly reciprocated, taking off his beret. He wore his usual uniform, with the baggy green-black jacket and hat that had at first looked odd to Reuenthal, like the FPA soldiers were participating in a historical reenactment of a battle from the 20th century of Earth. It struck him, though, that Yang wore it with a comfort equal to Kaiser Reinhard’s stately inhabitation of his Imperial Fleet uniform. The clothes suited him, as if they had been made to fit his body and the way he moved with lazy, uncoordinated ease through the room.

“You don’t need to do that, Marshal Reuenthal. Now that the peace treaty has been signed, I finally get to retire,” he said, in fluent but accented Imperial, as he sat—or rather, folded himself into the chair, pulling one foot up onto the seat and wrapping his long arms around his knee.

“In all honesty, I would have been as willing to kneel before you. It would befit your station—but perhaps you would have found it too forward,” Reuenthal said. Heinrich stepped forward from his unobtrusive spot by the wall to pour their tea.

Yang groaned, closing his eyes. “I swear all you Imperial admirals think I’m _his_ spiritual twin. I appreciate the flattery, but I’m merely a soldier.”

“You may be right. However, you must admit you have a reputation, ‘Magician Yang,’” Reuenthal said with an appeasing smile. Yang opened his eyes, and instead of saying anything reached for his tea and inhaled the steam rising from it, then smiled and took a long sip.

“Ah, this is very good,” he murmured, then looked bright-eyed at Reuenthal. “I don’t think I’ve had it before—you don’t happen to know the blend, do you?”

Lost, Reuenthal looked at Heinrich. The boy sprang to attention, and said quickly, “It is _Silbernewolke Schwarztee,_ grown on the planet Jörmungander, Your Excellencies.” His eyes flicked between Yang and Reuenthal for a moment as he hesitated, and then nervously he added, “I don’t know much about it, Your Excellencies, but the quartermaster said it was the most expensive black tea in the ship stores.”

Yang laughed, a clear and genuine sound. “A good strategy for selecting food you want to impress a guest with. I can only hope I’ll be able to get my hands on some back on Heinessen later.” He took another sip, and looked at Reuenthal with significantly more friendliness than he’d shown previously. It made his face look open, almost boyishly kind. “That’s another thing to celebrate about peace—I’ll finally get the chance to sample real Imperial cuisine.”

“I’m afraid our food is not terribly interesting.”

“Well, I mean the tea and alcohol, at any rate,” Yang said, waving a hand. He grabbed his fork and knife and started on the plate of bacon before him. Reuenthal didn’t have much of an appetite, but he politely took a few bites of toast, watching him. Perhaps it was because Yang had brought it up himself, but he couldn’t help comparing the man before him to Kaiser Reinhard. They were, he admitted, strikingly different in demeanor and physical appearance alike, despite the tense rivalry that had bound them together as equals for the past four years. The Kaiser _behaved_ like an emperor, had always done so since long before he reached that rank. Even as only an admiral, he had moved with those imperious gestures and held the entire universe in his august gaze. Marshal Yang, in contrast, was unassuming nearly to the point of invisibility—although he certainly could be called handsome, in a way, with his soft-edged yet strong features. His olive-toned skin and unruly black hair were practically the opposite of Kaiser Reinhard’s pale, statuesque presence, but Reuenthal found himself looking long at Yang, a familiar feeling of admiration stirring in his ribcage. He gave Heinrich a short gesture of dismissal, and didn’t watch as the boy ducked out of the room.

“By the way,” Yang said, talking with his mouth full, unconscious of any rudeness. “What was the thing of mine you wanted to give me?”

"Oh, yes.” Reuenthal stood to bring the dress uniform jacket over from the side table where it had lain folded. “I believe you lost track of this last night.”

Yang grimaced. “Ugh, that. I was hoping I’d never see that horrible thing again—but I suppose I have to take it back, since it was lent to me for the night. Thank you anyways for returning it, I appreciate the gesture. Very thoughtful of you. Where did you find it, anyways?”

“It was folded up in a bench in the officer’s district. Mittermeyer and I came across it while we were out walking, to get some air after the banquet,” Reuenthal lied, sitting down. “For our part, we wondered how it could have ended up there.”

“Ah, of course.” Yang took another sip of his tea. Looking down at his mug, he continued with a hint of irony in his voice, “I believe I was thinking about taking a nap on a bench, so I suppose I can understand your desire to escape that party. Guess that officer’s club is a pretty romantic spot, huh?”

Reuenthal didn’t know what he was talking about for half a second, then Mittermeyer’s words from the night before flooded back to him. Feeling his face grow hot, he shot Yang a startled, angry glance, but the man was only smiling guilelessly into his tea.

“I hope that I can be assured of your discretion,” he said slowly, through his teeth.

Yang waved a hand disarmingly. “I’m not one of those gossiping creatures. I’ll probably forget that I saw anything in a month or two, honestly. You have nothing to worry about.” He reached for the bowl of fruit—truly fresh fruit from Iserlohn’s farms, a rarity on a spaceship—and pulled out a slice of apple, but paused to raise an eyebrow at Reuenthal before putting it into his mouth. “In any case, I think a fulfilling relationship is something to celebrate. You’ve certainly landed yourself quite a catch—both of you have.” He ate the piece of fruit, crunching thoughtfully. “I’m kind of a little jealous, really. All I got to do last night was stand around, get progressively drunker and more bored, and then stagger alone around the corridors of Iserlohn for a few hours. You probably had a much more enjoyable time than I did.”

Reuenthal struggled to keep up with what Yang seemed to be implying. He was happy to have confirmation that Yang would not spread tales; they were no longer doing anything technically illegal, thanks to the Kaiser’s reforms, but legality and acceptance were two very different matters. However, Yang sounded as if he was saying more than merely reassuring Reuenthal of his silence on the matter—if Reuenthal didn’t know that he had a wife, he would have said the man was flirting with him. The thought brought a flutter of his heartbeat into his throat, and he stared intently at Yang. He wasn’t looking at Reuenthal, though, and there was no suggestiveness in his tone. Reuenthal, unable to satisfactorily interpret any of this, settled with saying only, “It’s likely. I appreciate your consideration.”

Yang smiled warmly. Apparently happy to change the subject, he said, “I suppose I should also congratulate you on your governorship. Aulis is a lovely planet.”

“I have never had the pleasure of visiting, but I am looking forward to taking office there.”

“Once you’re settled in, you should talk to Vice-Admiral Murai. His hometown is there, and he’s also planning on officially retiring, but I know he’s going to be politically active to a degree. He won’t work for you, of course, but he’ll be a good window into the needs of the populace, and making sure you’re on speaking terms with the local republicans can’t hurt your occupation.” Yang’s brow furrowed slightly on the last word, but his voice was even. Reuenthal didn’t remember Murai, although he was sure that he had met the man at some point during negotiations (there had been so many introductions made in the first few days), and asked for his contact information. Yang pulled a pen and notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something. “Vice-Admiral—what the hell is his given name again? Ah, yes—Alastair Murai. There’s his number, and he’ll probably be living somewhere in the Greenwater District.” He tore out the page and slid it across the table to Reuenthal.

“Thank you, Marshal. I will reach out to him when we arrive,” Reuenthal said, taking it and ignoring Yang’s eye-roll at the use of his rank. “I am sorry to not have any equivalent advice to give you on the formation of your new government.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage.” Yang took another long sip of his tea, and tapped the front of his forehead. “I’ve got enough historical examples up here to provide us with plenty of guidelines.”

“I have to say, it’s a task I don’t envy you at all. Aiding _Mein Kaiser_ while he reshapes the Empire is daunting enough.”

“Well, the way I see it is, we don’t have to make the perfect government in the next few years. But it _does_ have to be better than the former Alliance government, and it has to be easy for future generations to improve upon. We’re just trying to build a foundation that will allow democracy and equality to flourish—” He gestured with a fork, indicating two corners of the table in turn. “—and stifle fascism and dictatorship before it can arise.”

“As long as you don’t strike at the Empire again from this foundation,” Reuenthal said, grinning wolfishly.

Yang shook his head. “This peace has been won at too high of a cost, on both sides. I’d like at least the next few decades to be free of bloodshed.”

“There are elements in the galaxy we cannot control. I fear that the gods will demand a few more sacrifices for their altars of war and history, but,” said Reuenthal softly, thinking of wild-eyed Terraist assassins and Kaiser Reinhard lying pale and feverish in bed, unable to give commands at the height of his clash with his great rival. “I hope you’re right.”

They ate in a newly-comfortable silence for another few minutes. Reuenthal watched Yang unblinkingly. Yang never met his eyes, although this seemed to be less rudeness on his part than it was him simply being more interested in studying his food, or his tea, or the embroidered tablecloth, or the ornately decorated utensils and dishes. His distractedness allowed Reuenthal to watch him with impunity, although if Yang had looked back at him, he would have pretended that he was observing the distant movement of repair ships through the misty upper atmosphere of Iserlohn out the window over the other man’s shoulder.

“This has been an excellent breakfast, Marshal Reuenthal,” said Yang after a time, stretching and draping himself over the chair in an even more contorted fashion. “I’ll never let anyone say that Imperial officers don’t know anything about hospitality.”

“It’s the least I can do to honor a man who has proven himself to be the equal of _Mein Kaiser_ countless times.” 

Yang scratched his hair awkwardly, but smiled. “I suppose. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed the Kaiser himself hasn’t extended any invitations of this sort to me yet, but I guess he’s a busy man.”

“He is. And the Kaiser has been ill, lately.” The words spilled out of him unthinkingly. Reuenthal stared at the reflection of his mismatched eyes in his tea for a moment. He didn’t know why he’d told Yang that. “I think that’s another piece of information that I’ll have to ask you to keep from reaching too many ears.”

“Of course.” Yang leaned his head back to drain the last few drops of tea from his mug. Reuenthal tried, and failed, not to notice the delicate contours of his throat. “I’m sure he’ll invite me to Phezzan eventually, which I look forward to. Maybe I’ll visit you on Aulis as well.”

“Oh?” Yang had said it casually, but Reuenthal found his heart hammering suddenly. “I would be honored to have you.”

“I look forward to it, then.”

Reuenthal smiled, and after a moment, Yang glanced up and met his gaze with a quick, small smile of his own. His eyes were rich and dark, almost colorless.

They said some polite farewells after that, and shook hands before Yang left. Reuenthal held his hand for a fraction of a second longer than should have been comfortable for a handshake between two soldiers from opposing forces; Yang did not seem to notice, but then Reuenthal wasn’t really expecting him to have a reaction.

Once Yang had gone, taking the dress uniform jacket with him, Reuenthal stood by the window, continuing to watch the ships outside while he finished his tea. Although he was positive he still preferred coffee, he supposed he could understand why Yang had been so pleased with it. The taste was growing on him. Heinrich came in to clear away the dishes, and then asked if there was anything else he needed.

Reuenthal considered for a minute. He could be misinterpreted if he did this, and certainly would have hesitated for longer if Yang was merely a fellow officer, or a noble of the Imperial court. But Yang Wen-li was far removed from those intrigues, in both personality and circumstance, and, at this point, so was Reuenthal. In any case, Reuenthal had the suspicion that Yang was not easily offended, and even seemed so unconcerned with social niceties that he was beginning to doubt the man would recognize when he was being courted in any way. 

“Did you happen to find out how much of this tea we have in the stores?” he asked Heinrich.

“Three crates, Your Excellency.”

“When you have a chance, go back to the quartermaster and have him send two crates of it over to Marshal Yang, with—can you remember a message?”

“Well, yes, but—” Heinrich looked as if he did not trust his memory’s capabilities all that much. “—perhaps Your Excellency should write it down, just to be safe?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Reuenthal said, and went into to the office to find his pad of memo paper—good, heavy, ivory-colored paper, almost exclusively ceremonial—and a fountain pen. “I suppose it’s more, shall we say, friendly to send it with a handwritten note.”

 _Mein Kaiser prefers coffee and herbal tea. I thought this would best go to someone who will appreciate it. Yours, Oskar von Reuenthal._ He removed the paper from the pad, waited a moment for the glistening indigo ink to dry, and wrote only “Yang Wen-li” on the back before handing it off to Heinrich, who bowed and tucked the card gingerly into his breast pocket, careful not to bend it.

The youth went out, and Reuenthal sat down at his desk, and, after a moment, turned around so he could go back to looking out the window. The small repair ships swarmed out of the way as a larger tug emerged from the fog, pulling behind it a twisted, blackened mass of metal that was just barely recognizable as a former Imperial destroyer. Silvery mists streamed through the holes where cannon-fire had penetrated straight through the hull, charred sections of decks visible within. It was a wonder that she had somehow made it back to Iserlohn in the first place, but evidently the engineering teams had decided she was unsalvageable. Probably, she would be broken down, and her remaining materials would be used to repair other ships or set aside for future building projects. Reuenthal found himself uncharacteristically mournful at the sight. Although this ship was clearly heavily damaged, he knew—based on the plans Mittermeyer had drawn up for the fleet—even some only lightly injured ships would be consigned as scrap, if not here in Iserlohn, then when they returned to the capital. The strategy was reasonable; there was no need for a massive fleet of warships in peacetime, and both the Empire and the republicans would benefit from the reclaimed materiel from scrapped ships. But those rational considerations had no bearing on the tug of grief at Reuenthal’s heart when he looked at the ship, barely intact and doubly useless. She had at one point been a beautiful piece of machinery—the long, boxy muzzle of the main hull thrusting forward, the streamlined engines flaring out behind her, all armored in cold gray steel and bent on one singular purpose, on destruction. Her mighty cannons were forever silenced now, though. He had even heard that some portion of the salvaged weaponry and parts would be placed in museums, for the edification of future generations. The vision of a warship lying cold and lifeless in a grand, dusty hall, neatly dissected and labeled for curious visitors, was pitiable, something like a once-wild hawk confined to a gilded cage to be displayed at court, hooded in a jeweled mask to keep it indolent and tame.

Not for the first time, Reuenthal wondered if a similar fate was in store for him. He was the Kaiser’s weapon as much as that ship had been. What did you do with a weapon when there was no need for it?

He shook his head, dispelling the thoughts before they could swallow up his mind in bleak, self-destructive hypotheticals once again. The governing of Neue Land was his responsibility now, and he could not shirk it for his own shameful bloodlust. However, as Reuenthal returned to his work, his mind kept drifting back to the image he’d half-seriously articulated to Yang, earlier: a beautiful, austere altar, like the one in that lovely shrine to the goddess of Peace outside the Ministry of Military Affairs on Odin, but stained and smoking with the blood of heroes.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pax imperii -- "peace of the empire," from "pax, pacis" (f. n., peace) and "imperium, -i(ī)" (nt., rule, empire, supreme power). After the terms "Pax Augustae" and "Pax Romana," referring to the period of relative peace and stability in ancient Europe brought by the expansion of the Roman Empire, a project begun by the conquests of Augustus, the first emperor of Rome during the years 27 BCE to 14 AD. 
> 
> well, that's the first chapter of this horribly long and ambitious project that i will hopefully actually complete! i have a Vision and it involves some characters (not everyone unfortunately) surviving, transmasc Mittermeyer, shoehorning in as many references to Greek tragedy and Latin epic as I can get away with, gruesome injuries, completely unnecessary but fun illustrations, and an eventual Yang/Reuenthal/Mittermeyer throuple. Tags will be updated as I continue. 
> 
> I am @transhamlet on tumblr and @softboypassing on twitter. comments/questions/concerns/critiques/infodumping always appreciated!


	2. Agon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "‘Traitor’ even might be a better character to play, since it at least entails a purpose. And what better purpose is there than to offer myself up as a sacrifice to Mein Kaiser? With Yang Wen-li having made his bows and left the stage without either defeating or being defeated by His Majesty, doesn’t He require an enemy? Isn’t there a need for a final great offering to the gods to sanctify the Neue Reich? If my blood on the altar of War will unify the galaxy and fulfill the deepest needs of Mein Kaiser, I will more than happily allow it to be shed."

_Nov. 2, 800 U.C./2 N.I.C._

t was only mid-morning, but the day was already shaping up to be unseasonably warm for November. Or at least, it would have been if they were back in the old capital on Odin—for this part of Phezzan, it was apparently typical, and so the weak air-conditioning in the appropriated hotel was still on, bringing the rooms down to a bearable temperature, and many of the huge plate glass windows had translucent curtains drawn over them to keep out the sun. Despite all of this, Mittermeyer could feel sweat running down his neck and back, and the air of his office had suddenly become so stifling that he couldn’t breathe.

“What?” he said, with some effort, although he’d heard Bayerlein perfectly clearly the first time. He just wanted to hear it again, to make sure that this latest piece of information was correct.

His aide swallowed, but repeated, “The Kaiser is mobilizing his fleet. They will launch for Aulis tomorrow.”

Mittermeyer simply nodded and said nothing. There was nothing to say. He stared at his hands, clasped tight and resting on his desk. His nails were digging into his skin—when had that started? Slowly, he unlaced his fingers and stood, striding over to the window to stare out at the sky, perfect and lovely in that particular shade of autumnal cobalt blue. There was a little hazy line of clouds far off on the horizon, and Mittermeyer looked long at them without really seeing them. Every piece of news he’d received over the past few weeks seemed to build in its disastrousness up to now, and all his dreams of happiness and triumph were collapsing as his vision of the future dissolved, like ice in his palm. His black uniform with its weighty marshal’s cloak felt heavy, suffocating.

It had begun about a month ago. Mittermeyer had been in a meeting about fortress development that had taken up the entire morning, and when he had gone to the break room to get himself coffee and something to eat, the place had been oddly quiet except for Kessler and Müller, having a hushed conversation in the corner. They had both, inexplicably, gone uncomfortably silent when Mittermeyer approached them. Kessler made his excuses quickly and left, clearly awkward around him for reasons Mittermeyer couldn’t fathom. He cautiously probed Müller about it, and the younger admiral had only sat there looking wretched and miserable for some time before bursting out with, “It’s only a rumor, Your Excellency, but Admiral Kessler was telling me—something he’s heard from his contacts in Neue Land—he was telling me that he heard a rumor that Marshal Reuenthal is plotting to try and usurp the throne.”

“Really?” Mittermeyer had snorted. “And do either of you believe this at all?”

“Well, no…” Müller mumbled. “It’s just… unsettling to think about.”

Mittermeyer had found the whole thing amusing at the time, especially the fact that Kessler and Müller had evidently been convinced he might be upset or offended to hear it. “Trust me, if Reuenthal had decided to throw out his years of loyalty to His Majesty, I would be the first to hear about it,” he had joked, and Müller had nervously laughed.

Apparently, the story was that Reuenthal was going to invite Kaiser Reinhard to his seat of government at Aulis on some fabricated pretext and have him assassinated en route. It had come as no surprise to him when, a few days later, Reuenthal sent an invitation for the Kaiser to tour Neue Land, and Reinhard accepted. It was the most sensible thing to do in light of the rumors—Reuenthal could only acknowledge them in this roundabout sort of way, and by accepting his invitation, the Kaiser proved once again his trust in his subject. Mittermeyer was confident that by the time the year was out, they would be able to laugh off this incident as an even clumsier attempt to foment suspicion between the Kaiser and his subordinates than the episode with Elfriede von Kolsrauch.

And then news of the attack on Urvashi reached Phezzan.

The Kaiser fleeing, the entire command structure of the base apparently turned traitor, the outpost itself in flames, Admiral Lutz missing and almost certainly dead—Mittermeyer almost couldn’t comprehend it. He mustered both his fleet and the Lohengramm fleet, in preparation for the order to attack, although he could not have said who was the enemy. He knew, he was _sure,_ it couldn’t have been Reuenthal, but as he waited for the Kaiser’s return, an awful knowledge grew within him. Unless he had incontrovertible proof otherwise, Kaiser Reinhard _would_ blame Reuenthal: he could not let the death of one of his senior admirals slide. And Reuenthal was horribly, horribly silent on the matter.

The next two blows came almost simultaneously when the _Brunhilde_ finally reached the Phezzan Corridor, after nearly three weeks of growing panic in the Neue Reich Admiralty. Reuenthal released a public statement describing his intentions to free the Kaiser from the manipulations of Marshal Paul von Oberstein and the Ministry of the Interior, with military force if necessary. He did not mention Urvashi or Lutz. Kaiser Reinhard responded by officially stripping him of his rank and post and denouncing him as a traitor. Upon hearing these two pieces of information, Mittermeyer had needed to excuse himself from the senior staff meeting for nearly an hour, unable to conceal his distress.

Now, just a few short days after that, Bayerlein had come to him to tell him that the Kaiser was going on the offensive.

_He is turning against Reuenthal._

Mittermeyer’s skin suddenly felt very cold. An awful vision of Kaiser Reinhard’s death at Reuenthal’s hands, of Reuenthal’s death at Kaiser Reinhard’s hands, of what he might be forced to do if either of those eventualities came about, unfolded before him in a flash.

Strangely calm, he turned back to Bayerlein and asked, “Where is His Majesty?”

“In the Stellar Navigation Office, I believe.” Bayerlein looked nervous. He had every right to be, Mittermeyer thought idly. If Mittermeyer himself didn’t know what he was going to do, there was no way his adjutant could predict his next actions.

“Thank you, Bayerlein. You’re dismissed,” he said only, and Bayerlein saluted, his expression mournful, and ducked out.

The walk across the square to the building that housed the Stellar Navigation Office should have been pleasant in the outside air, but Mittermeyer was too distracted to notice. He must have been walking faster than normal, because by the time he stopped outside the door to compose himself, he was breathing hard. His damp shirt was clinging to his back. He tried to rehearse what he wanted to say, but his mind kept circling back to Reuenthal’s fate with the dreadful, collapsing inevitability of a ship caught in an event horizon or an oceanic maelstrom, spiraling into the yawning black doom beneath. He dialed his personal code into the keypad and opened the door.

The office was dark but for the blinking lights of the computer banks, scattered like stars on the rows of low monoliths that marched away on either side of the central aisle, and the screen that took up an entire wall at the far end of the room. Three figures stood on a raised section of the floor before it—High Admirals Wahlen and Bittenfeld, attending closely to Kaiser Reinhard’s words as he gestured to the charts before them.

Mittermeyer walked down the carpeted aisle, his legs leaden. He stopped inside the circle of light cast by the dim blue glow of the projected starchart, just before the steps leading up to the dais, and knelt.

The Kaiser’s musical voice fell silent, and he turned to look on him. Mittermeyer was staring at the floor, but he could feel his attention like a heavy weight. “Your Majesty,” he begun, and stopped, unable to form words.

"Please rise, Marshal Mittermeyer,” the Kaiser said. His voice was gentle, but faintly disappointed and with the meaning of a command, as if admonishing Mittermeyer for his excessive deference. Mittermeyer stood, slowly. “We must speak to the Commander-in-Chief. Admirals—please leave us.”

Bittenfeld and Wahlen turned, silent, and stepped away from the Kaiser. Bittenfeld shot him a worried frown as he passed, but his concern was undercut by the speed of his stride towards the door, grateful to avoid the coming confrontation. Wahlen stopped at the base of the stairs, as if about to say something, but after one look at Mittermeyer’s anguished face he sighed and continued out.

Mittermeyer waited for the sound of the door closing before he raised his head. Kaiser Reinhard’s hair and ivory skin seemed to shine more than they should have with only that wan digital light to reflect from them. The angry glitter in his glacier-chip eyes was a terrible pressure upon Mittermeyer.

“Your Majesty,” he began again, his voice somehow stronger now that they were alone. “You know what I must talk to you about.”

“Yes.” Reinhard’s voice was icily calm. “Reuenthal is one of the greatest commanders of this age. Only one of us has a chance of defeating him.”

Mittermeyer sucked in a breath. Wasn’t this room supposed to be kept cool, for the computer cores and valuable charts stored within it? It seemed far too hot.

“We know this is a difficult situation for you. After all, you and he have been close for ten years.” His words sounded dispassionate, as if Reinhard was reciting from a script, but his fists were clenched at his sides. Mittermeyer felt stifled, and he wanted to tear off his cloak and unceremoniously shed his thick black jacket. He would have to check the temperature in the room before he left, make sure the thermostat was working. “We understand you may feel disrespected by Our actions…”

“Your Majesty, please wait,” he finally got out. Reinhard fell silent. “I beg Your Majesty to reconsider. I am willing to give up every honor I have won to this day to convince you. Would you hear me out?”

Reinhard swept his hand out to his side with a vicious jerk, incredulous. “Reconsider? What do you mean, ‘reconsider’? Mittermeyer, aren’t you misunderstanding something? Reuenthal is the one who should reconsider. He rebelled against me. I was not the one to rebel against him,” he spat, all his imperious language forgotten.

Bowing his head partially in reverence, partially to stop looking at the awful blaze of fury in the Kaiser’s eyes, Mittermeyer said, low, “Please forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must say this: I don’t believe Reuenthal meant any betrayal. My loyalty and accomplishments are nothing compared to _his_. Please, give him an opportunity to explain the situation.”

“An opportunity?” Reinhard was nearly shouting now, his voice cracking, cruel in his anger. “Between the time that I escaped from Urvashi thanks to Lutz’s sacrifice, and the time that I was rescued by Wahlen, how much time do you think there was? Reuenthal could have explained himself more than a hundred times!”

“Respectfully, Your Majesty,” Mittermeyer continued. “When Marshal Reuenthal was slandered last February, you—you trusted him without question.” His voice was ragged.

“Is the fact that I was attacked, and that Lutz lost his life, mere _slander?_ ” The diagram of stars and gravity wells behind Reinhard seemed to quiver as he shouted. Mittermeyer cringed. Reinhard turned away, and spoke, lower and sorrowful. “It’s not that I want to punish Reuenthal. No doubt there are things he wants to explain. Though not as deep as your bond with him, there was friendship between us. But—why has Reuenthal not come before me to vindicate himself? While I was fleeing in humiliation, what was he doing? He didn’t send a letter of apology. He didn’t even write a line of condolence for Lutz! On what grounds would he have me recognize his sincerity?”

Biting his lip, Mittermeyer fought down the agonizing flicker of doubt that rose in him at the Kaiser’s words, and lifted his head to respond, “Your Majesty, it’s difficult for me to say this, but the reason Reuenthal hasn’t come before you is that he fears someone may… obstruct his effort to reconcile with you.”

Reinhard narrowed his eyes. “Who do you mean by ‘someone?’” he said, though he sounded as if he knew what the answer would be. Mittermeyer swallowed, but pressed on. If he could convince Reinhard here, it would be more than worth whatever animosity he drew upon himself after the fact.

“You may take this as slander, but I mean the Minister of Military Affairs, Marshal Oberstein, and the Vice-Minister of the Interior, Lang. Could these two be dismissed from their current positions, as a show of Your Majesty’s willingness to reconcile with Reuenthal?”

"Must I concede so much to him?” Reinhard spat. “Instead of putting down a treacherous subject, you tell me to dismiss my loyal retainers to win him back? Who is it who sits on the throne of the empire—me, or Reuenthal?”

Mittermeyer struggled not to react outwardly to the question, rhetorical as it surely was. “Your Majesty, I admit I have never been on good terms with Marshal Oberstein, but I am not calling for his dismissal because of a personal disagreement. He could be only temporarily relieved of his position, and then restored to it later without insult. But if we do nothing now, Reuenthal may never have another chance to return to Your Majesty,” he continued. He felt more confident as he proposed his plan; he had worked through such thought processes a hundred times to himself already. “If it will convince the Minister, I will also step down from my post as Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Fleet, so that he does not have to face any dishonor alone.” 

Reinhard listened and then, dreadfully, shook his head. His golden hair fell disheveled about his face, which was twisted in such anger that Mittermeyer flinched away from it. “No, Mittermeyer. I _cannot_ welcome him back with open arms. You’ve seen what he wrote about me, how I’m being somehow controlled by my advisors. Does he need to denigrate me like that to justify his treason? I must answer to it!”

“Then let me go instead, Your Majesty,” said Mittermeyer, desperate. He could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. “I will convince Reuenthal to kneel before you, even if it costs me my life.”

In the silence that followed, Mittermeyer could hear the gentle whirring hum of the computers around him, just underneath the sound of his pounding heart. Everything felt oddly distant, as if he was watching his own actions from the very back of his skull, through several layers of thick glass. Reinhard gave him a small smile. “We would not have thought that you would be in agreement with Oberstein in this instance.”

“Your Majesty?”

Reinhard flicked his hair away from his face. “Marshal Oberstein recommended that We send you in Our stead to fight Reuenthal. His reasoning was that We should not hazard Our person to put down this rebellion, and if We did, it might result in, as he put it, divided loyalties.”

“I also hate to agree with the Minister, but he may be right,” Mittermeyer said, seizing on this chance. “Your Majesty should not put yourself at risk to answer this challenge with violence. What’s more, you would be stained with dishonor if you yourself k—fought this man who was once your trusted retainer.” He did his best to ignore the remark about divided loyalties. “Please, Your Majesty, give me the order and I will face Reuenthal myself.” He was hardly sanguine about the idea of battling against Reuenthal—the thought sickened him with grief and horror—but it would give Mittermeyer a chance to convince him, to rein him in and keep him from doing anything else stupid.

“There is no greater dishonor than refusing to answer this challenge,” said Reinhard, low and fierce. His statuesque profile was framed by a cluster of represented stars, pixelated white points on a dark blue ground, looking like nothing so much as the gilded haloes painted around the images of saints and angels in ancient icons. The illusion was broken when he sighed deeply and turned back to Mittermeyer, anguish hollowing his face. Reinhard’s hand, unconsciously, went to his breast. Though it was concealed by the folds of his cloak, Mittermeyer knew he was fiddling with the locket he always wore. “Besides, I cannot make you turn against Reuenthal when I know what he means to you. There is little I can do, but I can at least spare you that pain.”

“If you command me, I will do it.” It was not a lie.

Reinhard shook his head again. “I do not want to make you choose between me and Reuenthal.”

“ _Mein Kaiser,_ ” Mittermeyer began, and stopped. He was about to say, _You already have_ , but the words stuck in his throat. The futility of his argument struck him like an axe-blow in one instant, driving the breath out of him. When the Kaiser had decided on a course of action, one could no more ignore his will than one could ignore the force of gravity. Instead, he bowed deeply and was silent.

Reinhard looked at him for what felt like an eternity, saying nothing. Mittermeyer heard his quiet tread as he came down the stairs to stop before him. He didn’t raise his head, and only stared at the threadbare carpet under his boots.

“Reuenthal sent you a letter,” Reinhard said quietly. Mittermeyer almost looked up. His hands had gone numb. “I have not opened it, but I think you should read it. I will have it forwarded to you.”

Mittermeyer closed his eyes, tight. He would not let his Kaiser see him in tears. “Your Majesty is kind,” he said, because that was all he could think to say.

Reinhard seemed as if he was about to say something more, or even reach a hand out in an attempt at comfort, but when Mittermeyer remained immobile, he swept his cloak over his shoulder and departed. Mittermeyer didn’t unbend from his bow until he heard the door close behind him, and it was only to sink to his knees and weep into his hands.

* * *

hen the _Brunhilde_ launched the next morning, the temperature had dropped back down to what Mittermeyer felt was a more seasonable level. It was a glorious sight—the bay around them whipped into whitecaps by the wind of the ship’s engines, the low sun shining on her pristine white hull, the small crowd of spectating soldiers roaring “ _Sieg Kaiser!_ ” as Reinhard, a ceremonial sword prominent on his hip, shook the hands of each of his High Admirals and ascended the ramp, and finally the bladelike silhouette of the _Brunhilde_ receding slowly into the air next to the massive trunk of the space elevator. His breath stolen by the magnificence of the moment, Mittermeyer could nearly forget the circumstances surrounding it.

It came back to him quickly. As soon as the fleet in the upper atmosphere, so high and far-off that they were reduced to a regular pattern of dots across the sky, started to move off, the knowledge settled back in and crushed him. Wahlen, Bittenfeld, and Müller were equally unhappy, or perhaps his mood spread to them all, because the car ride back to Fleet Headquarters at the hotel was utterly silent.

Once Mittermeyer returned to his office, he opened his computer to find a single new message in his inbox, the unread indicator blinking awfully at him. Reuenthal’s letter.

Though the Kaiser had said he would forward it early the previous day, he had evidently waited to send it until now, ensuring that Mittermeyer would not read it until after he launched. Mittermeyer thought he suspected why—he couldn’t imagine that Kaiser Reinhard would be so sentimental as to believe wholeheartedly in Mittermeyer’s unconditional loyalty under the current circumstances.

He was, in truth, thankful that the Kaiser had waited; he didn’t think that yesterday he would have had the stability to read it. Mittermeyer had done his duties mechanically that afternoon, arousing his subordinates’ concern as he gave commands in a flat voice that was more akin to Marshal Oberstein’s than to his own. His memories of the rest of that day were disjointed, as if he had gone through it in a fugue, but he remembered the hushed voices of the other High Admirals and the sense of doom hanging over the building, as if all of Phezzan was waiting with bated breath. As soon as he could escape from the Ministry of Military Affairs, he had gone straight home and turned off his phone. Mittermeyer had been fully intending to spend the night drinking himself into a stupor, but Eva—sweet, lovely, unknowing Eva—had somehow got the door to his study open before he could start on his third bottle.

“What are you doing, Wolf? We were saving that wine for the solstice celebration, or don’t you remember?” she had chided him, not unkindly.

“How did you get in? I thought I locked the door,” he had muttered dully, not looking up from what he had been holding in his hands.

“There’s a spare key in the storage closet.” Eva came over then, but as she put her arms around him to help him stand, she had noticed the framed photo he was gripping. It was a picture that he had taken of him and Reuenthal, some eight years ago, before he married Eva. They had taken advantage of their leaves matching up, and the fact that each of them had saved up some prize-money from their last few campaigns, to take a week-long vacation in a little seaside town on the edge of a cape on the other side of Odin. The weather had been less ideal than they had planned for, but that had been the only thing to complain about. The photo Mittermeyer held was of them sitting together atop a low rock on a beach, shirtless despite the chill implied by the grey water and overcast sky behind them. They were not touching, but they sat close, and both of them were grinning. The broad, genuine smile on Reuenthal’s face would have been unrecognizable to anyone who knew him in solely a professional sense, and deeply unfamiliar to any of his friends other than Mittermeyer _._ Eva had stared thoughtfully for a moment when she saw it, but said nothing, then gently took it out of his hands and stood it back up on the desk before she guided her husband to his feet and led him away to the bedroom.

Wracked with despair and anxiety, and quite drunk, Mittermeyer had fallen asleep almost as soon as he lay down. He woke, though, at some point late in the night to be sick, after which he had gone back to sleep on the couch. It didn’t feel right to rely on his wife for comfort when he could not express to her the problem in its entirety. And, though he had been ashamed to recognize the desire, he would have given anything to be sharing a bed with Reuenthal instead in that moment.

The feeling did not leave with morning and sobriety. If anything, it grew worse, and more definite. Mittermeyer struggled to quash the thoughts—they were so obviously dangerous in this situation—but he couldn’t ignore them, not when it seemed as if every muttered conversation he overheard in the halls of the Ministry of Military Affairs centered around Reuenthal, always referred to euphemistically as “the enemy” and “the rebel.”

He took a deep breath and opened the letter.

_Dear Wolf,_

_If this letter ever reaches you, by the time it does I presume that either our Kaiser will have announced his intention to fight me, or will have ordered you against me himself. Either way, there won’t be much more of an opportunity for me to explain myself, so I suppose I must try now._

_My first confession to make is that I was not behind the incident on Urvashi. You may ask why I have not made this public and attempted to make amends, which is a reasonable question. There are a few reasons: first of all, my lieutenants have been unable to discover who truly instigated the attack. It would be deeply shameful for me to make the claim that I was once again framed for treason, and this time to be unable to even name the culprit. I doubt Mein Kaiser would believe me—I am not even sure that you will believe me. I can make my guesses, certainly, as I did in the pronouncement against the Minister of Military Affairs, and I may even be correct. I would not put it past the man to invite an assassination attempt if he believed it would allow him to purge a greater threat to the Kaiser (namely, myself), and I have intelligence telling me that he and that cockroach working in the Ministry of the Interior are gaining ever greater power over the Kaiser, which I suppose I should tell you to be on the watch for. That is the second reason why I cannot come in surrender to the capital: in truth, I could probably bring myself to accept any punishment from Mein Kaiser, but to grovel before those dogs as well would be unthinkable. Third, I you know as well as I that the Kaiser will not, cannot, forget Admiral Lutz’s death. His loss is a great tragedy, both for the Empire and for me, since it means that the door to reconciliation with the Kaiser is forever closed. Even if I did not fire the shot myself, it happened in the territory I am responsible for, and I should have been able to prevent it. I should have been able to prevent the whole thing, but it is too late now._

_I will also confess that it would be a species of dishonesty at this point to come before the Kaiser and proclaim my unwavering loyalty. Over the past few years, I’ve found myself wondering, more and more, if it is merely service that I am destined for. I have noticed many opportunities to betray the Kaiser and seize the throne for myself—I first saw them as impulses I had to guard against, tests of my loyalty and devotion, but over time, they developed a certain attraction. When the Kaiser announced his intention to tour Neue Land with such a small retinue, I started to seriously consider various plans for kidnapping him and taking control of the Empire. I told myself it was to free him from the manipulations of Oberstein and Lang, but that could have only lasted so long. Maybe I’ve lost my self-control. Maybe I’ve been hypnotized by the allure of power. It doesn’t matter, really. What does matter is that I was ready to become a traitor in the moments before this happened. The attack on Urvashi would have meant nothing if I was not standing on the brink already; it must seem like such a great gulf between thinking treasonous thoughts and carrying out an actual rebellion, but it isn’t, not when someone has forced my hand like this. It has left me with no other recourse._

_Do you know what it’s like to be forever barred from happiness and forced into playing a particular role in the world, for things that are beyond your control? Maybe you have an idea of it, but you have Evangeline. That sort of happy domesticity has never been an option for me. I’ve always stood by my conviction that it’s no great loss, but I have wondered, sometimes, in moments of weakness, about what could have been if the Empire was ever so slightly different. But there is nothing I can do about it, and so I will always be unable to be anything other than what I am. I suppose it’s not a very large step from ‘outcast failure and unlovable faggot’ to ‘traitor.’_

_‘Traitor’ even might be a better character to play, since it at least entails a purpose. And what better purpose is there than to offer myself up as a sacrifice to Mein Kaiser? With Yang Wen-li having made his bows and left the stage without either defeating or being defeated by His Majesty, doesn’t He require an enemy? Isn’t there a need for a final great offering to the gods to sanctify the Neue Reich? If my blood on the altar of War will unify the galaxy and fulfill the deepest needs of Mein Kaiser, I will more than happily allow it to be shed._

_Forgive me—I am already presaging my own defeat when it is by no means a sure thing. I know that my chance of success is small, but it would be an inaccurate degree of humility to say that it is nonexistent. It would be larger, too, if you were to join me. I could be senior emperor, and you junior emperor, or the other way around, I don’t really care. Wouldn’t it be fun to rule the galaxy together? (I know, as I write this, that the chances of you saying yes to this are even smaller than my chances of seizing the throne. But I have to make the offer, of course.)_

_I must leave off here, though, as Bergengrum has just come in to tell me that the_ Tristan _is almost ready for launch. I apologize for the increasing incoherence of this letter; I feel as if I’ve hardly slept since hearing about Lutz. But then, you’ve always been best able to understand me no matter what state I’m in, my Sturm Wolf. Please take care of the Kaiser._

_Yours,_

_Oskar von Reuenthal_

Mittermeyer closed his eyes once he finished. His emotions were a burning tangle inside his chest, all hopelessly snarled together, and he put his hands on his head in confused distress until one steadily building reaction rose above all the others. Tight, incredulous rage clamped suddenly around his ribcage, and he spat aloud, “Reuenthal, you _idiot!”_ His mouth tasted of metal. He needed some, any, outlet for his fury, but the only thing in his suddenly blurred vision was the computer at his desk, Reuenthal’s words still glowing out at him. Mittermeyer raised a hand—he had tightened it into a fist already without thinking—and brought it down, hard, on the screen.

The glass cracked and splintered under the blow, sending slivers into his skin. The pain and the buzzing sensation of shorting electricity against his fist shocked Mittermeyer out of his anger, but he didn’t pull his hand back. He instead closed his eyes against the harsh flicker of the broken screen and dropped his head into his other palm. 

Reuenthal was being stupid and impulsive. There was no question of that. Mittermeyer was long familiar with his habits of regularly instigating duels and bar fights out of half-imagined slights for no other reason than boredom, or letting his libido steer his decision-making more than his rational mind, or suddenly isolating himself in a fit of self-hatred—but this was far, far worse than anything to date. Usually Mittermeyer would be the one to restrain and calm him before he made any unforgiveable mistakes. Of course, that was impossible now. He could do absolutely nothing.

His thoughts circled fruitlessly, furiously around his ineffectuality, and eventually he shook his head and stood up from his desk. He needed fresh air.

Mittermeyer took the back stairs in order to avoid running into anyone. At one point, he heard Vice-Minister Heydrich Lang’s obsequious tones drifting down the halls, but he didn’t run into the man—which he was glad of, considering that he didn’t think he’d be able to restrain himself if he saw Lang’s face. Once outside, instead of heading across the plaza towards the busy center of town, he turned down the road towards the waterfront. There were fewer people here; it was an older part of the city, and normally very popular with tourists, but the time of year combined with the recent annexation of the planet had thinned the sightseeing crowds severely.

It was warmer than it had been when the Kaiser launched. The sun was out, and with the breeze off of the water blocked by the tall buildings, it felt like a very early autumn day, barely out of summer. Mittermeyer would have taken off his cloak if he had known before leaving. His hand was starting to ache. It took several blocks of silent fuming before his aimless wandering provided him a distraction from his shock and despair.

He was aware, of course, that the hotel that the Kaiser had claimed as provisional Imperial Headquarters was close to where he’d stayed the first and only other time that he’d been to Phezzan, but preoccupied as he was with thoughts of Reuenthal, his memories didn’t fully resurface until he saw the temple.

It sat at the end of the wide boulevard he had just turned down, shadowed by a circle of scrawny cypresses. It was a pantheon, he knew without having to see the niches inside, and hardly more than a shrine compared to the grand, recently-built temples downtown. Staid and neither particularly architecturally innovative nor traditional, it must have been a relic of an old wave of immigration from the Empire, and at a time when the state religion was in higher favor at court or among the populace. It seemed mostly closed down, with just a few small, flickering lanterns on its steps, and no attendants or worshippers that Mittermeyer could see. He walked towards it anyways; even if he didn’t end up going in, the marina was less than a block beyond it, and he welcomed the diversion of nostalgia.

He had been inside it once before. Sick of sitting in the hotel bed, already bored of the books and solivision dramas he had brought for recovery, and feeling finally re-energized enough to go for a real walk with all the frustration and self-confidence of a bored and precocious fifteen-year-old, he had put on some clothes loose enough to hide his bindings and slipped out of the hotel. The Phezzani clothes had felt strange, like he was wearing too-large pajamas in public, but he could conceal his drains in the large pockets.

It took more out of him than he had expected, and he had been breathing hard and uncomfortably, specifically aware of the incision lines across his chest when he reached the temple. He had been struck, though, by the gilded tiles accenting the doorway, the tall columns resplendent in red Phezzani marble, and the beautiful arcing dome of the roof. The next day, already feeling stronger, Mittermeyer had returned with his charge card to purchase a miniature bottle of wine at the stands on the steps for an offering and went inside. It had contained a small throng of worshippers, all elderly or middle-aged locals from the nearby Imperial enclaves. The profusion of scented candles was vastly different from the torchlit shrines he was familiar with on Odin. The names of the gods, inscribed around the symbolic carvings of garlanded oxheads, were identical, naturally, as were the gray-clad attendants, and Mittermeyer had taken a surprising amount of comfort in the place. He’d wandered over to one of the small side altars, and poured his libation with a bowed head, muttering thanks to the Allfather for his good fortune as the wine sluiced away down the drainage grooves. The cherry-red liquid had looked exactly like the bloody fluid he emptied out of his drains every night. In a public place such as that, he could only have said a generic prayer of gratitude, but he had been thinking about his good fortune in not having any surgical complications, his good fortune of being able to find a surgeon in the first place, his good fortune of having parents who loved him enough to let him be a boy. When he thought back on the moment, he remembered tears stinging his eyes, but he was never sure if it was from emotion or if a cloud of incense smoke had wafted into his face.

There were a lot of events from that time of his life that Mittermeyer was able to look at with far less romanticism, now. His parents’ support of his transition, for one. Certainly, love had been involved—his parents were good parents, and no good parent could watch their child’s increasing and obvious distress and not do everything they could to solve it, especially not when the solution was so simple—but now that he was older, and a little more aware of his family’s expectations for him, it couldn’t have been the only factor. He could easily imagine his father considering that a man had a better chance at landing a well-paid job (preferably in engineering) from which he could send a good sum of money home to his retired parents. And it was no stretch to picture his mother realizing that they would have an easier time finding a wife than finding a husband willing to overlook their daughter’s peculiarities. A very, very old sense of bitterness rose inside of him, and he cautiously probed at the emotion, like a sore tooth. _Do you know what it’s like to be forced into a particular role in this world, for things beyond your control._

(How could Reuenthal say something like that when he knew, better than anyone with the possible exception of Eva, the kind of choices Mittermeyer had made? The choices his entire life rested upon?)

Slowly, Mittermeyer ascended the steps to the temple. The rickety stands that had once sold libations and flowers and incense were gone—Kaiser Reinhard was far from being especially devout or theocratic, and the Imperial religion was always less popular on Phezzan than it was in the actual planets of the Empire. He didn’t have any intention of going inside to pray or make an offering, but it seemed dingier and shabbier than he remembered from what he could see of the interior from the porch. All he really had the energy to do was look at the schedule of public offerings posted next to the doorway. To his surprise, there was an actual sacrifice scheduled for later in the week—it must have been a holiday for a local cult he was unaware of. The priests would be dedicating a deer to the goddess of Peace, along with a few other minor, associated deities. Mittermeyer chewed his lip, thinking.

In the hymns and myths that priests sometimes recited at temples, no one really mentioned what happened to the animals before or after they were sacrificed. Mittermeyer knew, though, that after the rite was done, the ox or deer’s meat would be distributed among the local community to be eaten—or, more typically in urban and suburban areas, sold to the nearest butcher.

He let his thoughts, incoherent and scattered as they were, continue to swirl aimlessly as he left the temple steps and continued on to the park behind it. Calmer now, he could sense that he was on the verge of coming to a decision, and knew he only had to wait for his feelings to rearrange themselves in a sensical pattern. Then he would be in a place, a comfortable and familiar one, from which he could at last take action. The dry grass rustled and splintered under his boots.

Reuenthal wanted to offer himself up as a sacrifice, to the Empire, to the gods of war, to his own bloodlust, to Reinhard. The gods would accept that sacrifice, as meaningless as it was, and so would the authority of the Empire. People like Lang would dismember his legacy, cast him aside as a traitor and dismiss all his contributions to the Neue Reich, all his talent and strength. Mittermeyer recalled a passage from an ancient poem he’d read years ago, about punishments in the afterlife, in which infamous traitors were condemned to be forever chewed in the mouth of a monster. The image had stayed with him since, though now he couldn’t help but imagine Reuenthal as one of the bodies so consumed, his pale, graceful limbs macerated endlessly into bloody foam.

He had not pledged his loyalty to Reinhard for this.

He had pledged his loyalty because Reinhard had saved him from the prejudice of the Goldenbaum nobles, five years ago, because Reuenthal had been so very convincing about joining the then-admiral after he’d been freed, because Reinhard had seemed capable of doing what he set out to do, because he loved the idea of a new Galactic Empire that was made to support the needs of its citizens and not the whims of the Kaiser, because he wanted to help make that future come about, because Reinhard had been _right._

What was all that worth when he would lose Reuenthal in the process of accomplishing it, and for no other reason than the sheer spectacle of betrayal and retribution?

It was the sort of thing that would happen in an ancient mythical saga, an inevitable clash for poets and artists to milk for pathos and drama. It was a grand and stagey tragedy, with Reuenthal in the role of the treacherous lieutenant, or the mighty rival, or even (as Reuenthal seemed to consider himself) the maiden who lays herself upon the altar so that her father’s army can be promised victory. But this was real life, not an epic legend of heroes and gods, as much as Kaiser Reinhard’s grace and willpower seemed beyond anything human. In spite of all his pride and ability, Reuenthal was just as mortal and fleshly and fallible as Mittermeyer.

He came to the low rise that bordered the seaward side of the park, and mounted it, still moving automatically, thoughtlessly. The land sloped down from it towards the line of beachfront houses, white and spotless above the sand, with the bay opening out beyond. The sky was cloudless and cold.

He could not—would not—stand aside while Reuenthal threw himself upon the sacrificial altar. Not if he wanted to be able to live with himself afterwards.

A gust of wind whipped inland from the water, bringing a ripple of motion to the trees around Mittermeyer and catching his cloak, making its crimson length snap and billow out behind him. He turned his face into it, and gratefully felt the sea-breeze on his face, pure and cool and faintly tasting of salt. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and stood there, thinking of nothing but the sensation of the wind scouring his cheeks, until the breeze died away and he was ready to make his way back to Fleet headquarters.

Mittermeyer saw no one in the hotel when he returned, not before he reached the floor his office was on. Hildegard von Mariendorf, in a neat three-piece suit of pale orchid pink, was there, leaning heavily against the wall. She seemed to not have heard Mittermeyer come up the stairs, and straightened with some effort when she spotted him.

“Fraulein Mariendorf!” Mittermeyer called, walking hastily towards her. Concern for her had entirely overshadowed any of his introspection—she had been away sick for quite some time, and as he got closer, he noticed her face had a slightly greenish cast. “Are you well?”

“Of course, Marshal Mittermeyer,” she said, saluting. He returned the salute, although it wasn’t exactly proper with her not holding any real military rank. It felt necessary to show her the same degree of respect as anyone else in the Admiralty.

“Are you sure? You don’t look well,” he said, quietly.

“It’s just a little nausea,” she admitted. She was holding a hand to her stomach. “I may not have quite shaken off all the effects of my illness, unfortunately.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Can I offer you some tea? I was just about to make some.” That was a lie, but speaking to Mariendorf, Mittermeyer realized that he desperately needed friendly company. “My wife swears by this chamomile-ginger blend for anxiety and nausea, and she insists that I always keep some in my office against the so-called ‘negative effects’ of all the coffee I drink.”

She brightened at that. “That sounds lovely, Marshal. I’ve been meaning to come and talk to you in any case,” she added, as they turned to head towards his office.

Mittermeyer nodded silently. Of course she did.

While he boiled water for the tea—he could have called an orderly to do so, but he always felt better not delegating tasks for his personal comfort, and he needed something to do with his hands—Mariendorf pulled up a chair to sit across from his desk. The reclaimed hotel was a far cry from the plush state of ministry buildings on Odin, and there were no couches to sit at in most of the new offices. She looked at his smashed desktop with a frown.

“Computer problems?”

“Reuenthal sent me a letter,” he said, trying to keep any inflection out of his voice.

“His Majesty told me.” To his surprise, Mariendorf sounded sad. “I hope that it was… illuminating, at least.”

“It was.” His attempt at a flat affect failed then, and his voice cracked slightly. He carried the steaming mugs over to the desk and sat down. Mittermeyer would normally have left it at that—but this wasn’t a normal situation, was it? Nothing would be normal from now on. Attempting to bottle up his riskiest and most private feelings, as he always did, wasn’t going to help him anymore. And Mariendorf had always struck him as especially astute when it came to emotional matters and the oft-messy interpersonal dynamics of Kaiser Reinhard’s Admiralty. She put him in mind of Siegfried Kircheis, in that way. “Do you want to read it? I would appreciate your advice on the situation, if you are willing to give it.”

“I don’t want to pry into your personal matters,” she said carefully.

“I’m sure he thought that at least the Kaiser would read it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a copy has found its way to Oberstein’s desk by now, so I don’t think there’s much harm in you looking at it.” Mittermeyer gave her a studious glance. Should he tell her? She reminded him of himself when he was younger, so much—the short-cropped hair, the obvious aversion to dresses—and she didn’t seem to notice Kaiser Reinhard’s beauty in the same way that most other women he knew did (and many men, of course). He took a deep breath. “There is some… personal… context you should know, though.”

She folded her hands neatly on her lap and nodded for him to continue.

“You know that myself and Reuenthal are very close.”

“Of course.”

“Are you aware of exactly how close?” He supposed the Kaiser could have told her at some point, especially now, when there was no denying that their relationship would impact the future of the Empire. Mariendorf shook her head. Mittermeyer struggled with the words for a half-second, and then plunged onward. “We have been… intimate… for the past ten years.”

“I see.” Her expression was impenetrable, but her voice was kind and soft. Very like Kircheis’ had been.

Mittermeyer exhaled heavily, slumping back in his chair. It had been easier to confess than he had expected. He felt so raw and vulnerable, still, but there was a comfort in finally being honest, in the way that Mariendorf looked at him with real understanding. 

“I am honored by your trusting me with this information, Your Excellency,” Mariendorf continued, her voice warm.

“I wish it didn’t have to come out under these circumstances,” Mittermeyer said, low. She nodded, obvious pity in her large blue eyes. He sighed, tried to smile, found he couldn’t, and pulled the letter up on his phone and handed it to her to read.

Mariendorf tried valiantly to keep her face expressionless, probably in the hopes of projecting some sense of calm and rationality, but he could see her brow quivering as she scrolled, and several times she drew in a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Mittermeyer sat back in his chair, suddenly realizing he was very tired.  
Eventually, Mariendorf handed his phone back to him. She took a sip of her tea, some of the color coming back into her face as she did. “You have been put in a very challenging situation, Marshal Mittermeyer,” she said, delicately.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he replied wearily.

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “One thing that concerns me, actually, about this letter is the claim about Marshal Oberstein and Vice-Minister Lang.”

Mittermeyer shrugged. “I don’t trust either of them one bit, but unfortunately, there’s no evidence they’re behind this. It could just as easily be another Terraist plot, or remnant Goldenbaum loyalists, or republican terrorists...”

“No, I mean what Reuenthal says—both here and in his public statement—that they’ve gained control over His Majesty somehow and are manipulating him from behind the scenes. I trust that we, at least, would have noticed if something like that was going on. And Reuenthal has never given me the impression that he has paranoid tendencies of any kind.”

“If you are implying that Reuenthal is lying—” Mittermeyer straightened. Underneath the table, his hands had balled into fists again.

“Not at all.” Mariendorf swiftly flicked her wrist in an appeasing gesture. “I don’t think he has any reason to lie to you. What I mean is, it seems as if he seriously believes that Oberstein and Lang are in control of the government, and I am curious as to what has inspired him to think so.”

“Now that you mention it, prior to his leaving for his assignment, Reuenthal never said anything to that effect,” Mittermeyer said, thoughtful. “We both always thought that those two had the capacity to cause quite a lot of unpleasantness, but Oberstein at least seems content to do nothing more but serve Kaiser Reinhard, and we’ve been able to keep him and Lang in check otherwise. Reuenthal said he received intelligence that they were gaining power, though…”

Mariendorf nodded, grateful that he was following her reasoning. “If Reuenthal received falsified or even exaggerated evidence about their manipulations, it could have put him in a mindset where he needed little convincing to rebel.”

Mittermeyer tightened his jaw and looked out the window. “I wish I had called him more. We were both so busy,” he said, his voice low and torn. They had only had one visiphone call, in September, with half-laid plans for another one in late October for Reuenthal’s birthday. Mittermeyer had not seen his face since then. Yes, they had both been busy, but he knew they could have made the time. He closed his eyes, pained.

Mariendorf waited in silence for him to compose himself and turn back to her, and then she continued. “It may be worth looking into Lang’s connections again, in light of this. Admiral Lutz mentioned to me that he was doing so, and Kessler may be able to obtain access to whatever he found. There is also the matter of Urvashi.”

“I would believe that he is innocent of that even if he didn’t say so in this letter. It was too sloppy for Reuenthal,” he said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “If he had actually meant to kill or capture the Kaiser, he would have succeeded easily. Probably, he really would have done it by taking him hostage on Aulis, instead of calling an attack on a military base that he wasn’t even personally overseeing.”

“Right,” Mariendorf said, after only a short pause. “It might not be a bad idea to investigate the incident again.”

“Reuenthal says that his subordinates weren’t able to find anything, but in all honesty, most of the admirals assigned to him never impressed me that much. I agree, we should conduct our own investigation. By now, Reuenthal has probably recalled whoever he sent to the base, and it would be easy to send a fleet there to examine the situation.” Inspiration seized him, and he added, trying to keep his tone casual, “I’ll go myself, as soon as Müller is well enough to return to duty and take charge here.”

Mariendorf took a deep, even breath. “Begging your permission, Marshal, I am not certain that’s wise.”

“Oh?” He took a sip of his tea. To his surprise, it did have something of a soothing effect. As the Kaiser’s chief advisor, Mariendorf was well within her rights to suggest courses of action to Mittermeyer in his position as the commander of Imperial headquarters while Reinhard was not present. Naturally, he was under no obligation to follow her advice.

“Would it not be more prudent to send Admiral Müller once he is recovered, or perhaps Admiral Kessler? You are the Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Fleet, and your authority will be needed here.” He knew that was not the only reason Mariendorf had an issue with his going to Urvashi, but she was hesitant to say more.

“I trust Müller and Kessler to keep things in order here, with your help, of course,” Mittermeyer replied, his voice as cool as hers. “I understand your concerns, but you know that the situation is too precarious for anyone else to go. And I have an obligation to Reuenthal to clear his name.”

“Is that the only obligation you have to him?” she asked, then clamped her mouth shut, instantly regretting the question. Mittermeyer stonily watched her face flush, but she did not break eye contact with him.

“My only goal here is to end this conflict without losing either His Majesty or Reuenthal.”

“Then we are in agreement.” Mittermeyer started to relax, but Mariendorf continued, with flat honesty, “However, if it reaches a point where bloodless resolution is impossible, I will not hesitate to do what little I can to preserve His Majesty Kaiser Reinhard’s life, even at the expense of Marshal Reuenthal’s. I hope that you will put careful thought into your choices in case of such an eventuality.” She stood then, nervously tugging at the bottom of her suit jacket to smooth it again and clearly ready to end the conversation.

Mittermeyer stayed in his chair for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose and looking at his wrecked computer. “I will. I don’t have any of Reuenthal’s ambition for the throne, as I’m sure you know.”

“I did not think you did.”

He nodded and rose to salute her. Mariendorf saluted him back, and turned on her heel with military precision to leave.

Before she reached the door, Mittermeyer said again, “Fraulein Mariendorf.” She looked back at him, her brow furrowed. “Thank you for your advice. I am glad you’re feeling better—without you, I doubt the government could function half as well as it does.”

Mariendorf smiled warmly and gave him a slight bow. “Thank you for the compliment and for the tea, Marshal. And for the sake of a functioning government, I hope that our goals remain in agreement for the foreseeable future.” Before Mittermeyer could reply, she was out the door and gone.

He stood there seething for long after she left. Mariendorf would surely have noticed that he had said nothing committing himself in either direction. If she doubted him, it would be a simple matter for her to mention her suspicions to Kessler (or even, gods forbid, Oberstein, but Mariendorf was not one of _his_ creatures). Mittermeyer’s position would not protect him if the Chief of Military Police thought for even a moment that he was about to betray the Kaiser. But he was willing to stake that Mariendorf still trusted him; though never close, they had a long history of mutual respect and had allied together for military and political initiatives on more than one occasion. He would still need to step carefully—there were people less willing to be lenient towards him than Mariendorf.

Mittermeyer called for Bayerlein, and asked his aide to arrange a meeting with Wahlen and Bittenfeld, at their earliest convenience. The two admirals, though part of the Kaiser’s supporting fleets, would not ship out until the next day. While waiting for the meeting, Mittermeyer dug through his trove of encryption software for something that would work for his current purposes. He ate a spare lunch as well—he thought he wouldn’t have much of an appetite, but Eva had gone to the trouble of packing him something, and as soon as he smelled the soup she’d made, he found he was starving. The thermos was empty almost before he realized it.

Though his rage was still coiled behind his ribs, hot and sulking (he almost doubted it would ever leave his body at this point), Mittermeyer could easily present his usual calm and amiable front to Wahlen and Bittenfeld when they arrived in the conference room. The discussion of the Kaiser’s battle plan was pleasant and businesslike, despite the grammatical contortions their language underwent in order to avoid directly referring to Reuenthal as much as possible. They would start by striking out for the Iserlohn Corridor, as if to meet with the Mecklinger Fleet, but then quickly turn towards Aulis after a certain amount of time. Reuenthal’s plan would likely be to try to cut off their line of supply and harry the fleet as they traveled, and this would work to divert his attention, potentially splitting his forces. Of course, as soon as he realized what was going on, he would likely recall his fleets and regroup to give battle somewhere in central Neue Land. Neither Kaiser Reinhard nor Reuenthal were bloodthirsty enough to instigate an endless civil war with countless Imperial casualties, so each of them would push for a single decisive battle. Mittermeyer nodded as he listened.

“A good strategy,” he said, even. “I hope that I do not need to impress too much on you the need to seek Reuenthal’s surrender, not destruction.”

“It goes without saying,” Wahlen replied. “None of us desire his death.”

“More important to remind His Majesty of that,” Bittenfeld said, in his approximation of a mutter.

“Such a reminder requires diplomacy,” Wahlen said, stiffly. “Your Excellency, I will do my best to convince him.”

“Thank you both. As for me, I will be leaving to investigate the incident on Urvashi again.” Ignoring their brief expressions of shock, Mittermeyer went on, “Not for another few weeks, since Admiral Müller is still not fully recovered from his injuries and I will be placing him in charge of Headquarters while I am gone. I would like you two to be in regular contact, and to keep me informed of the battle situation as much as possible. Use this encryption key.” He handed them both a thumb drive with the necessary code; it was an encryption he and Reuenthal had used for their especially sensitive ship-to-ship communications when serving in the same fleet. The memory stung him with grief, but he was getting better and better at not revealing his internal state.

“Do you mean to intervene?” Wahlen asked.

“Only if it becomes necessary.” Mittermeyer did not elaborate on what he thought “necessary” entailed.

“Well, I feel better about this battle already, knowing that the Sturm Wolf is going to be our cavalry,” Bittenfeld said indelicately, tilting his chair backwards to balance it on two legs. Wahlen, distracted by grabbing the armrest and slamming the chair down on the floor before Bittenfeld toppled backwards, didn’t notice the bitter twist of Mittermeyer’s mouth.

Wahlen sighed. “The new Empire hasn’t even been around for two years and we’re already on the brink of civil war. I hope this isn’t indicative of what the rest of the Lohengramm dynasty is going to be like.”

“I’m sure this is just the death throes of the old era. We will have this resolved within the year,” Mittermeyer said, and smiled, all teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agon -- Gr. ἀγών, a contest, struggle, or conflict. In Ancient Greek drama, the agon is a formal debate or verbal duel between the protagonist and antagonist of the play (or sometimes the protagonist and chorus), presenting to the audience the fundamental conflict at the heart of the narrative. (e.g. the argument between Klytaimestra and Agamemnon in Aiskhylos' "Agamemnon.") 
> 
> thematic song rec for this chapter: "DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR" by Lingua Ignota: linguaignota.bandcamp.com/track/do-you-doubt-me-traitor
> 
> first "real" chapter! the Reuenthal rebellion in the OVA always felt rather anticlimactic w/ how it addressed Reuenthal's motivations so I tried to explore those in a little more depth here, and also set up a situation in which Mittermeyer's loyalty to Reinhard is thrown into question, which is fun. of course my route for exploring that is with trans content and lots of Euripides references. it's also very unfortunate that the Imperial religion never got any depth in canon, so I'm trying to develop it here a little; it's very hellenistic/religio romana, bc that's what I know about, but with the norse names, which makes sense as a sort of fascist syncretism for a state religion. 
> 
> thanks natalie and luca for beta reading; u can find me on tumblr @transhamlet and on twitter @softboypassing!


	3. Artifex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ugly, pragmatic part of Yang’s mind pointed out that he should welcome such an internal struggle, as it would only weaken the Galactic Empire militarily and politically, potentially putting the republicans on better footing against the Lohengramm Dynasty. He sighed and scratched his head, teasing his shaggy black hair through his fingers in an attempt to relax himself.
> 
> Schenkopf looked back at him. “Penny for your thoughts, Marshal,” he said, a strange, almost aggressive smile beginning to contort his ruggedly handsome face.
> 
> “The temptations of warfare and grand strategy,” said Yang. Schenkopf raised his eyebrows. “Whatever happens with Reuenthal, it’s going to be bad for Kaiser Reinhard’s rule, in a whole multitude of ways.”
> 
> “Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” said Schenkopf, in a tone of such affected casualness that even Yang could tell it was forced. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea to take advantage of that?”

_Nov. 20, 800 U.C./2 N.I.C._

ang had not known that Frederica Greenhill had a xenobotany hobby when he took her on as his adjutant, and even once they were married she rarely mentioned it. It made a species of sense that it had not come up before—they had either been living on Iserlohn, where the only plants were those carefully selected for hydroponics and decoration, or under heavy surveillance as former enemies of the Empire. In the past few months, however, she had been at last able to indulge herself in rambling walks through the neighborhood, and Yang, despite his staunch anti-exercise position, accompanied her from time to time. He had ended up enjoying it far more than he expected; Frederica set a slow pace, and her enthusiasm over what he would have otherwise considered a nondescript patch of lichen or weedy flowers was contagious. Her knowledge of the local Heinessen flora impressed him constantly—she could point at any given plant and immediately recite names for it in several languages, as well as its evolutionary relationships and ecological role. She had managed to put the steel trap of her memory in service to more than just her administrative role, and Yang admired her deeply for it.

He could relate to it as well, to a point. Frederica’s brain seemed to work like an elaborate, detailed filing system worthy of the largest planetary archives, with everything that she learned or experienced permanently engraved in her mind after being neatly stored away according to some complex organizational code. Yang could easily apply that analogy to some parts of his thought processes, although he was sure his memory was far more disorganized. _His_ brain was more like an office with a few spotless, state-of-the-art computer banks containing all of his knowledge about history and military tactics, but everything else was consigned to a hopeless mess of half-legible notes on paper scattered across the floor, as if by an archivist resentful of the idea of recording anything outside of those few interests. Some things, regardless of their importance, had not even impressed themselves on him, and so Yang was eternally in awe of Frederica’s vast capacity for even the most seemingly inane pieces of knowledge.

Math was one of those things that had passed straight through Yang’s head without leaving much of a mark. He was well aware of that fact, but he had still offered to help Katerose with a set of physics problems she was puzzling through, and he was strongly regretting that decision now. Yang would have dearly liked to call on Frederica for help, but she was in the kitchen, assisting Julian and Hortense with cooking dinner. Katerose had been with them at first, but Julian had to eventually tell her politely but firmly that he appreciated her help, but she was getting in the way, and why didn’t she wait in the living room until it came time to do something simple, like set the table for the small dinner party that Julian and the Yang-Greenhills were hosting. (Yang knew his weaknesses in the domestic sphere as well, and had not even set foot in the kitchen except to make himself some tea.)

A nebulous air of tension hung over the small house, despite the cheerful conversation from the kitchen. The news had come in two days before that Marshal Reuenthal had dispatched a semi-official envoy to them from Aulis. Whoever it was would be arriving on an Imperial transport today. Julian had almost wanted to cancel the dinner party, but Frederica and Yang had convinced him that they had been planning it for too long to abandon, and that they couldn’t not celebrate four months of mostly-stable republican government on Heinessen. The party had gone forward, but unspoken worry was thick in the air, and there were low mutters in every gathering of people of what, exactly, Reuenthal could be offering them, and whether his terms would be accepted.

Yang was trying his best to let the dinner serve its intended purpose as a distraction, which was a large part of why he was sitting on the couch in his living room next to Katerose, looking over her shoulder at an unintelligible stream of numbers. She was a regular fixture of the Yang-Greenhill-Mintz household now, and had been over for most of the afternoon. The Cazernes had arrived over two hours ago, nominally to help with preparations, but only Hortense was doing much of anything, while her husband supervised their children playing in the day-old dusting of snow outside. Schenkopf had shown up awkwardly early, and had looked ready to go back outside when Katerose appeared in the living room, but the Admiral had by then ensconced himself on his lap. Trapped by the bulky cat, Schenkopf was now sitting uncomfortably in the corner, barely managing the trick of eavesdropping on the conversation without looking as if he was. Yang and Katerose, for their part, ignored him—Katerose with a stubborn and resentful haughtiness, Yang currently uninterested in contributing in any form to the complicated tensions between father and daughter.

“I might not be the best person to help you with these problems,” Yang confessed. “Why _are_ you teaching yourself astrophysics again?”

“Oliver says I need to learn it if I want the qualifications to fly anything larger than a Spartanian. Which I _do,”_ Katerose replied, scowling as she tapped her pen against her lips.

Diplomatically not voicing his thoughts on the knowledge that Katerose was apparently on first-name terms with Poplin, Yang nodded. “He’s right. Being a pilot or a navigator is a tough job. I’m glad I never had to try it. So, this question—” He leaned in and read aloud from the screen. “‘Given a Constitution-class transport with a 600e-type engine running at 80% efficiency, starting from coordinates (418, -91, 47), what are the coordinates of the most effective warp zone to reach a volume of space 85 light-years coreward?’ What does that mean?”

Katerose looked askance at him. “Really? Didn’t they teach you anything about spaceflight at the Officer’s Academy?”

“They did, but only the basics. And those were some of the classes I was bad at,” Yang said ruefully, scratching at the back of his head. Introductory Astrophysics was a required course, but unless you were on track to become an engineer or a navigational officer, the purpose of the class was merely to instill in students the bare minimum of knowledge on the subject they would be required to know for commanding a starship. It had been at once dull and overwhelming, and Yang was really only interested in the sort of celestial phenomena that might alter the course of a fight or war, or affect one’s choice of battlespace—solar wind, black holes, unnavigable areas, and the like. Everything else they had learned he had only retained (and just barely) for the course of that semester, and he was left with little more than a rudimentary grasp of most astrophysical topics. It hadn’t been a major drawback in command—he was perfectly happy to leave navigational and technical decisions up to the officers who specialized in such matters—but he had forgotten anything that could be relevant to Katerose’s homework. “All I remember is that the fabric of space is full of holes, or something like that.”

She laughed a little. “I think the textbook I got uses the same metaphor.”

“Try and explain it to me the way you’ve learned it, then,” Yang offered, leaning back on the couch. “Maybe you’ll get a better understanding of the problems that way.” He was a strong believer in the power of dialogue as a pedagogical tool, perhaps because of the mind-numbing boredom he’d experienced in nearly every lecture-based class outside of the subjects that interested him.

Katerose nodded. “So, the usual figure of speech when talking about normal space-time is ‘the fabric of space’—but it’s not like a nice tablecloth, it’s more like a piece of lace or something, because of the effects of stars and other celestial bodies, like their gravitational fields and magnetic fields and whatever. They all intersect in weird ways and create holes, or places where space is like, _thinner_. And what the stardrive does is let the ship push through those holes and into null space, which connects up with other holes or thin spots nearby so that we can cross many light-years of space instantaneously. There are holes all over space, but only some of them are ideal for ships to warp through, and those are the warp points.” She gestured to her laptop on the coffee table with a grimace. “And this problem that I’m stuck on is asking me to find the best warp point in this particular volume.”

“The stardrive has to warm up between warps, right? Are you taking into account how much time you need for that?”

“Yes, although it also depends on the travel environment—as well as using fuel, most engines are able to take in ambient energy from the distortions of space around the ship to build up enough power to make the warp.”

That jogged something in Yang’s memory. “Oh, I knew that—that’s why Imperial ships tend to be faster over long distances, and they can move their fleets more quickly. Their engines are generally better at collecting that energy.”

"Yes, that’s right,” Katerose said, frowning intently at her screen again, before inhaling quickly with a sudden revelation and scribbling some numbers on her pad of scratch paper. “Oh I see… need to look at the ambient processing rates again…” She muttered to herself as she made frantic calculations. Yang looked over at Schenkopf, who was still pretending not to be paying any attention, and gave him an expression that he hoped communicated “see, your daughter _is_ talented.”

Before he could elicit any response from the man, the front door opened, interrupting Yang’s thoughts. Over the happy babble of his daughters, Cazerne shouted, “Honey, I don’t want to spoil your dinner plans, but do we have enough for an additional guest?”

Instead of responding to his wife’s surprised affirmation, Cazerne came into the living room, his body language serious. “I got a call from the spaceport,” he said to Yang quietly. “The envoy just arrived. It’s Murai.”

“Murai? Really?” Yang was surprised, but more by the fact that Murai had been convinced to leave his retirement on Aulis than anything else. Katerose’s eyes widened, and she put down her pen to listen.

“And you invited him to dinner? It won’t be much of a party anymore, in that case,” Schenkopf interjected from behind them.

“It’s the polite thing to do for a former comrade,” said Cazerne curtly. To Yang, he added, “Do you think we can be sure of him? I don’t know what Reuenthal’s offered him…”

“You mean, you think he’s working for the Imperial forces now? Whatever ‘Imperial forces’ means now, anyways,” Yang said, leaning back into the couch. Reuenthal’s rebellion had thrown the new balance of galactic power entirely askew, much to Yang’s private consternation, since he had just come around to feeling mostly comfortable with the current situation. “I doubt it. The man’s moral code is too strong. I’m glad you invited him, though. It’ll be nice to get more of the fleet back together. Did he say whether he was coming?” Dusty Attenborough and Oliver Poplin were both on Phezzan (though for different reasons), many of the Rosenritter had remained with the fleet, Merkatz had returned to his family on Odin, and poor Fischer had been one of the last casualties of the war before the peace treaty, so it was not entirely the happy reunion that Yang would have liked, but it was close.

“I didn’t actually talk to him,” said Cazerne with a shrug. “Just told the spaceport officials to pass on the invitation.”

Yang nodded, satisfied. The four of them sat in silence—Schenkopf reading something on his phone, while Cazerne fidgeted on the couch and Yang watched Katerose as she returned to her physics problems. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Yang went to answer it, reluctantly aware that it was his duty as the host (or, more precisely, a member of the household hosting the dinner, since it was Julian’s and Frederica’s project more than it was his) to welcome guests.

It was Murai, of course. He stood on the little porch, bundled heavily against the November chill, but the half of his pinched face visible above his scarf was unmistakable, as was his stiff spine and the formal salute he gave Yang.

Yang was too gratified at the sight to protest the salute, and instead clapped Murai on the shoulder affectionately and beckoned him inside. He knocked the slush off his boots on the doorstep as he came in, and when he took off his scarf there was a small, rare smile on his lips. There were a few more streaks of gray in his hair than there had been when the treaty was signed.

“It’s very good to see you, Alastair,” Yang said, waiting as he hung up his jacket and removed his shoes. “How was the journey?”

“Comfortable. I suspect they put me in the most luxurious cabin on the ship, for fear of offending a diplomatic envoy, even an informal one. And I’m glad to be here as well, though I wish it was under different circumstances,” Murai replied with a shrug. Yang nodded and led him back to the living room.

“I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid the kitchen is currently a contested space. Dinner should be ready shortly, though.” As Yang said this, Cazerne and Schenkopf (and after a second, Katerose) stood to return Murai’s salute upon entering the room. There was no sign of Cazerne’s previous momentary suspicion in the brief round of greetings and hand-shaking.

When Murai had sat down in an armchair, Yang returned to his preferred seat on the floor, his back against the edge of the coffee table. There was a silence, nearly awkward. Yang broke it by asking, with only a little sarcasm, “So, what did Marshal Reuenthal offer you to get you out of your peaceful retirement and come all the way to Heinessen, in this hemisphere’s winter no less?”

“I refused compensation for it, actually. I figured it would be better if I went, and not some Imperial officer who might take the opportunity to do some needless, antagonistic posturing. I suppose _he_ did too, since as far as I know I’m the first person he asked.”

Yang nodded. That had been what he’d expected. “How are things on Aulis? Have you been working with the occupation government much?”

“Fine, honestly.” Murai seemed untroubled by the informal debriefing Yang was starting. It felt as if they were settling back into their old roles of trusted commander and supportive staff officer, familiar as breathing. “Before all this, they only reached out to me twice. The governor-general himself once when we first arrived, asking me to publicize his good intentions for a war memorial service he was holding, and then a few months later Minister Elsheimer requested my advice on conducting resource allocation, so I put him in contact with some administrators who would be willing to collaborate. Everything’s been stable up until now.”

Schenkopf made a low, hostile noise in his throat at that. “I knew I should have killed that man when I had the chance.” Yang, not wanting to interrupt Murai, languidly waved a hand to shut him up.

“I hate to admit it, but the new Imperial administration has been surprisingly attentive to the needs of its citizens; certainly, they’re already more committed to ending inequality than the late FPA ever was. Including Marshal Reuenthal.” Murai sat up incrementally, and a flicker of bright expression crossed his normally stoic face. “Which reminds me—and you’ll like this, Walter—part of his offer is Trunicht. Alive or dead, whatever your preference is, is how he put it.”

There was a taut, stunned silence. Schenkopf whistled quietly.

“Trying to sweeten the deal, is he?” muttered Yang. He scratched the back of his head, mentally rearranging his understanding of the situation. “I didn’t think that would be part of his proposal.”

“He has Trunicht in custody.” Murai smiled again. “I’m fairly sure it’s for no reason other than he hates the man.”

“That’s at least one thing we can agree on,” said Yang, meaning it as a joke, but his voice trailed off into thoughtful silence. It was still hard for him to square the current situation with his impression of Reuenthal from the peace negotiations. The stern, collected man he remembered did not seem to be the type to suddenly and dramatically turn traitor. Certainly, all of the Imperial Admiralty were deeply devoted to Kaiser Reinhard, and Reuenthal had been no different, if not exceptional in his love for the young monarch—Yang still recalled clearly the distinctive way Reuenthal pronounced “ _Mein Kaiser,”_ low and worshipful, always with that obedient bow of his head. He had to wonder if there was something else going on behind Reuenthal’s actions, but Yang tried to avoid the temptation of theorizing about grand conspiracies, as a rule. Whatever had happened to cause it, the circumstances were deeply unfortunate. It seemed unlikely at this stage that the two sides would reach a resolution without bloodshed. It was almost unimaginably tragic that Kaiser Reinhard’s Neue Reich, founded on promises of peace and galactic unification (Yang was setting aside the question of the inherent violence of empire for the time being), was so soon embroiled in pointless civil war. And, though it was a minor thing compared to the inevitable major losses of life, Yang regretted that Reuenthal was caught up in it. He was loath to admit it now, naturally, but he still thought fondly of the easy rapport they had shared at that brunch the marshal had invited him to after the signing of the treaty, and at those few later social events before both fleets departed. There had been none of that discomforted disappointment he was so often faced with when meeting people who knew him only by reputation, none of that momentary doubt as they asked themselves, _this is what the famous Yang Wen-li is really like?_ Reuenthal had felt far more personally approachable than Kaiser Reinhard, too, and not only because he had asked Yang to have breakfast with him nearly the moment negotiations were over. Yang had been looking forward to another opportunity to sit down to tea with him, another round of companionable verbal sparring as they gently tested the edges of each other’s thoughts, comparing ideologies and strategies and motives. There weren’t many people who Yang felt he could actually hold an equal conversation with—mostly he either spent his turns of dialogue fumbling for scripted polite phrases, or he would be monologuing embarrassingly, completely silencing the other person—but he was surprised to find that Reuenthal was one of these few.

“I can’t imagine that Marshal Yang and Marshal Reuenthal have much more in common than that,” said Julian, emerging from the kitchen, brushing his hands off on his apron and bringing a waft of mouthwateringly pungent steam with him. “Hello, Vice-Admiral. I’m so happy you could join us—dinner’s nearly ready.” 

Murai stood and saluted him before taking Julian’s proffered hand. “I’m very glad of my timing; the circumstances of this journey are more than worthwhile for the chance to sample some of Julian Mintz’s famed cooking.”

Embarrassed by the compliment, Julian stammered out an attempt at deflection, before giving Murai a look of scrutiny. He began to ask haltingly, “So, are you—what has Marshal Reuenthal—”

“Julian,” Yang interrupted. “Let’s save the official business until after dinner, shall we? We should wait until we’re all here and have the time to talk about it.”

The youth nodded. “Of course. My apologies, it’s been on all our minds lately. Karin, would you help me set the table?”

Katerose gratefully set down her pen and sprang up, and the two disappeared into the dining room. Yang smiled fondly after them, then turned back to Murai and asked, low, “And how is your other work going?”

“As well as it can be.” Murai shrugged. His unofficial task, given to him by Yang, was to begin organizing republicans in Neue Land. No one expected a revolution to occur in the near future—hopefully, that degree of upheaval might not even be necessary, if the Lohengramm dynasty continued with Kaiser Reinhard’s oxymoronic trend of progressive authoritarianism—but if there was to be any chance of galaxy-wide democracy in the future of humanity, they needed to lay in the groundwork for the currents of resistance that may help bring about such a system sooner rather than later. Yang hoped that Murai would be his first point of contact with republican activists in the Empire itself. “I’ve been talking to people; mostly on Aulis, but we have a few off-planet networks. All we’ve been focusing on recently is plans for what to do in case the fighting comes to civilian space, though.”

“That’s good.” Some of Yang’s nebulous concerns suddenly coalesced into a thought, and he straightened. “Do you think there’s much chance of that? Or that Reuenthal will involve the citizens in any way?”

“I doubt it. Obviously, he didn’t tell me his plans in detail, but I do know that he’s taking his fleet out to meet the Kaiser in battle.”

Yang nodded, satisfied. That at least ran concurrent with his expectations of Reuenthal: honorable, to the point of pridefulness, but not the kind of commander who would drag civilians into a conflict if he could help it. He leaned back until his head was resting on the top of the table behind him, feeling the stretch in his spine as he stared at the ceiling. “I’m glad he’s not taking action against us. We’re not in a state right now to defend against any Imperial fleet, much less one headed by one-half of the Twin Stars.”

“If we ever were. I seem to recall that last time we were up against Reuenthal, we technically lost.”

“For definitions of losing…”

He didn’t have long to reminisce with Murai before the other guests started arriving, and then any chance of conversation was lost in the bustle of serving up food and establishing seats.

Julian and Hortense’s cooking was delicious, as always: a massive dish of vegetarian stir-fry was the centerpiece, drenched with a sweet, nutty sauce and containing just enough hot peppers to scorch Yang’s tongue, and accompanied with small bowls of a creamy squash soup. One of the invited councilmembers brought a gift of several bottles of wine, and the conversation was lively and only a little political. The former members of the Yang Fleet (how Yang hated that name, but no one ever called it by any of its proper titles) were not truly involved in the actual administration of Heinessen, though they had been instrumental in setting it up and were still regularly called upon to guide the new government through its growing pangs. Based on Yang and Frederica’s political philosophy, born out of long hours putting their heads together to consider the question on the journey back from Iserlohn, the planet was administered by a decentralized network of nested councils, all elected from the local community and responsible for making decisions about whichever neighborhood, city, or region was under their governance. Yang had managed to avoid being given any official position, but, to his regret, was still frequently asked for as an “expert advisor,” as were Frederica and Julian. Frederica was head of the Interplanetary Affairs Council, an agency that was still sorting out whether it was primarily military or diplomatic, and Julian had been named as Commander-in-Chief of the Heinessen Republican Fleet. Their main task was maintaining relations between the Galactic Empire and the Republic of Heinessen—as Yang and Frederica had thought it not prudent to become too involved in the governance of the planet itself, and Kaiser Reinhard and his Admiralty were more likely to trust them after the mutual respect they had gained over the final years of the war—but they could not avoid being involved as their local councilmembers struggled to adjust to the new situation. An unfortunate number of them had political experience in the late FPA, and an even larger proportion expected that the new government would be just as susceptible to corruption and back-room political maneuvering as Heinessen’s prior administration. Frederica, it turned out, was surprisingly adept at navigating this mire of flailing attempts at intrigue. Yang was mostly silent throughout dinner, admiring the way his wife steered her way through the conversation, subtly deflecting the hinting questions that the councilmembers posed to her and saying what seemed to be the perfect things to neatly satisfy every guest at the table. Frederica outright ignored all but the most overt references to various political decisions and upcoming meetings (most of which Yang was blissfully unaware of), and her responses to those blatant propositions were carefully noncommittal. Anything more circumspect only received disarmingly friendly questions, or pointed looks at the other Fleet guests, who would then chime in with distracting anecdotes of their own. She did it all with a friendly, honest smile on her face. Yang thought that he would never have been able to stay so gracious for so long in such a situation.

Eventually, their plates were clean, and Julian initiated a slow shuffling off into the kitchen to clear the table. Frederica and Yang were the last to leave. She sighed, tilting her head back and slumping into her chair, shedding her mask of competence and social skills for the first time all night. “I can almost understand why dictatorship is preferable for so many people,” she said, under her breath and quiet enough that her words only reached Yang’s ears.

“I’m pretty sure that they have to deal with this kind of thing in the Empire too. Maybe worse, with all that antique Prussian reenactment they like to get up to,” Yang said, crossing his arms comfortably over his chest. He kicked out his foot towards her underneath the table, affectionately rubbing her ankle. “You did a good job, anyways.”

Frederica smiled, looking over at him. “Thanks.” They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, a tenderness hanging in the space between them. The noises from the kitchen and living room, a clattering of dishes being put away and cheery conversation, started to dissipate as the guests trickled out, accompanied by the sounds of the front door opening and closing. She sighed again. “I guess I should go and help them clean up.”

“Will you need my help?” Yang asked plaintively as Frederica stood, gathering her dishes.

She winked at him. “I can come up with some excuse for your absence for Hortense, but better make yourself scarce.” 

Unfortunately, it turned out that the most out-of-the-way place Yang could reasonably retreat to without seeming as if he was deliberately avoiding the task of cleaning up was outside, on the small porch. Schenkopf was already there, perhaps with the same motivations, smoking a cigarette and seeming to not feel the cold. He proffered the pack—an unfamiliar brand, with a bright logo in blackletter Old Imperial emblazoned below a picture of a smiling blond woman holding flowers—to Yang, who shook his head.

“Did Murai bring you those from Aulis?” he asked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets against the biting air.

Schenkopf nodded. “Rose of Yggdrasil. My grandmother used to smoke them,” he said fondly, leaning his elbows on the railing. “Hard to find on Heinessen, but I asked him to keep an eye out.”

Yang mumbled something about interplanetary trade and leaned back against the wall. He stared out into the chilly night, looking at the unfolding black November sky above their little suburb. The porch faced south, away from the lights of downtown Heinessenopolis that choked out the stars, and hundreds of bright white points were scattered across the cold expanse, mirrored below by the wan glitter of streetlamps, receding into the distance towards the dark shape of the encircling mountains. It reminded him of looking out the window of a ship into black vacuum, studded with the tiny lights of distant suns or the nearby engines of a fleet. Except for the cold—the air was colder than even the most zealously air-conditioned bridge. _That_ was undeniably planetary. Yang Tai-long’s typical trade route always had taken him back to Heinessen in that planet’s winter. Wen-li still had a memory—whether a genuine one or a constructed image, he couldn’t say—of stepping off the plane for the first time, clinging to his father’s hand and staring up at the endless bitter blue above him, in awe of the limitless sky and the way his breath smoked in the air, ice crystals shimmering in the light. He always had liked going to Heinessen, first for the joy of stomping about in the show in the backyard of the little property they owned, later for the surety of gifts of books from his mother’s side of the family and reading them by a window that looked out onto sparkling drifts of snow. Simpler times. A breeze chewed at Yang’s cheeks. It was surprisingly bracing, not quite pleasant, but the soft warm haze of his wine-drunk thoughts sharpened and cleared at its touch.

He sat there for some time, mentally examining the shape of the situation. _Who would win in a fight, Kaiser Reinhard or Marshal Reuenthal?_ It felt like the kind of question that was asked on the worst kinds of military history forums, the ones populated by immature amateurs with a childish fascination with the trappings and aesthetics of war, and no thought for what their oft-quoted statistics of victories and losses might mean. And yet, Yang was forced to put serious thought into this absurd hypothetical. Kaiser Reinhard had numerical superiority, which would probably tell in the end, but Reuenthal was one of the few commanders for whom that “probably” was a genuinely uncertain modifier. If he could engineer the strategic context of their confrontation successfully, he would be able to withstand, maybe even defeat, the Kaiser’s forces.

The first condition Reuenthal needed to establish was that he keep fleets from central Imperial space from invading through the Iserlohn Corridor, potentially capturing him in a two-front pincer attack, which he was trying to ensure by sending Murai to the republicans. Although the Heinessen Republican Fleet was not large, they had enough ships and organizational capability for a blockade at the mouth of the Corridor, albeit one that would not have the resources to last for more than a few months. The second condition was that all of his soldiers remained loyal despite being asked to rebel against Kaiser Reinhard. Yang considered both of these conditions unlikely. However, even without them, it would not be an easily decided battle, and Reuenthal would certainly make the Kaiser pay for his victory. The ugly, pragmatic part of Yang’s mind pointed out that he should welcome such an internal struggle, as it would only weaken the Galactic Empire militarily and politically, potentially putting the republicans on better footing against the Lohengramm Dynasty. He sighed and scratched his head, teasing his shaggy black hair through his fingers in an attempt to relax himself.

Schenkopf looked back at him. “Penny for your thoughts, Marshal,” he said, a strange, almost aggressive smile beginning to contort his ruggedly handsome face.

“The temptations of warfare and grand strategy,” said Yang. Schenkopf raised his eyebrows. “Whatever happens with Reuenthal, it’s going to be bad for Kaiser Reinhard’s rule, in a whole multitude of ways.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” said Schenkopf, in a tone of such affected casualness that even Yang could tell it was forced. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea to take advantage of that?”

“As soon as I can figure out how, you’ll be the first to know.” (He wouldn’t be, as both of them were aware, but Yang couldn’t help but be lightly sarcastic in response to Schenkopf’s failed attempt at subtlety.)

Schenkopf took his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled long through his nose, a gauzy cloud of smoke rising from his nostrils to wreath his face. Yang could smell its faintly floral undertones. “The first moment you see your opponent’s strength beginning to flag is when you should strike. If you can catch them weakening before they realize it themselves…” His grin was broad and predatory, a thirsty glint of teeth in the dim porchlight.

Yang scratched his head again. He wished he’d remembered to put on his hat—his ears were starting to get cold. “Galaxy-wide political strategy is not an axefight. It’s better to be patient and not risk the stability we’ve worked so hard for, at least for now. And before you call me a coward, or something to that effect—” Schenkopf had started to scowl. “—I’m not saying that there’s no way for us to benefit from this. But right now, the Empire undergoing this kind of crisis is not really something I’d celebrate, if you’re looking beyond simple military strength.” Yang was slipping into lecture mode, but Schenkopf was hanging on his words, or at least pretending to. “I hate to legitimize dictatorship in any way, but Reinhard von Lohengramm is a decent ruler, and for the time being anything that threatens to destabilize his reign is not something we want. Even just in former Alliance space, he’s already made significant improvements to infrastructure and equity, and it would be bad if civil war disrupted that progress. It’s also going to affect the bonds of loyalty between Kaiser Reinhard and his subordinates—in both directions, if there’s any sympathy for Reuenthal in the Admiralty. Finally, I just can’t feel good about an entirely avoidable conflict that’s going to cost millions of lives, on a moral level.”

Half-melted patches of snow on the lawns around him were mottled blue and black. Schenkopf was silent for a very long time. Yang thought that would be the end of the conversation, but he asked eventually, “Do you think Julian will agree with you?”

“I hope I’ve given him enough guidance to lead him to a similar conclusion,” said Yang with a shrug.

Schenkopf stubbed out his cigarette on the railing. “I hope he lets me go back to Aulis with Murai.”

“What, do you have a former girlfriend there you’d like to check up on?” Yang asked, wry.

“Yes, but that’s only part of it,” Schenkopf said, grinning wickedly again. “I have a vision of myself standing with Marshal Reuenthal’s head in one hand, a tomahawk in the other, and Trunicht’s head under my heel.” He demonstrated, wobbling slightly as he balanced on one foot. The general had partaken impressively of Councilmember Hsyu’s donation of expensive wine at dinner. “Don’t you think it would be an excellent photo op?”

Yang shook his head in fond exasperation. He was saved from having to answer by the Cazernes exiting from the front door, each of them bearing an exhausted toddler. When he had bade them goodnight and went back inside, he found Frederica, Julian, and Murai sitting in the living room. Murai had a tablet on his lap, and all three of them looked expectantly up at him when he entered.

“Don’t wait for me, I can read the demands later,” Yang said, waving a hand as he slipped through into the kitchen to make himself tea. He was gratified to hear the discussion start up as he put water on to boil; Julian and Frederica both still acted unreasonably reliant on him much of the time, and Yang would much rather they become agents of change in their own rights and stop being merely his satellites. As he went through the steps that Julian had painstakingly taught him, measuring the leaves out and filling the strainer, his thoughts turned back to the situation in the Empire. _If there’s any sympathy for Reuenthal in the Admiralty…_ What was Marshal Mittermeyer’s reaction to all this? True to his words to Reuenthal back in July, Yang had been on the verge of forgetting what he’d seen on Iserlohn, but there was no way he could ignore the facts of their relationship now. The balance of the rebellion hung upon whether Mittermeyer would remain loyal to his Kaiser or commit himself to Reuenthal. And with the Kaiser going out to meet Reuenthal in battle, undoubtedly with the intention of defeating and killing him, Yang had little confidence in the former option.

He had no idea if they were in communication with one another, but they didn’t have to be in order to successfully subvert Kaiser Reinhard. The last time he’d spoken to Dusty, it had sounded as if nothing was particularly amiss on Phezzan—tense, to be sure, but no upheaval in the government, although it seemed as if several ministers had been quietly arrested or fired. But that had been several days ago. If Mittermeyer wanted to usurp the throne, for himself or for Reuenthal, he could seize state headquarters on Phezzan while Kaiser Reinhard and his fleet was off-planet, cutting off his retreat. Alternatively, he could mobilize his own fleet and attempt to catch the Kaiser in a pincer attack of his own. The kettle beeped, and, frowning, Yang poured the hot water into his mug, the fragrant steam drifting into his face. Dusty had mentioned in passing that the Marshal’s fleet was still on standby in the Corridor, but neither of them had thought much of it at the time. Both Reuenthal and Mittermeyer against Kaiser Reinhard was far more likely to tell in the Twin Stars’ favor, Yang thought as he set the timer for the tea to steep. Of course, Mittermeyer could still be conflicted about his allegiances and may be setting out in the hopes of facilitating peace between the two—with his fleet in tow in case negotiations were impossible. 

Obviously, complete avoidance of conflict and a return to the stability of Kaiser Reinhard’s new empire would be the ideal scenario. But Yang had a hard time imagining Reuenthal and the Kaiser, in the haughty imperiousness common to them both, being able to easily set aside the fact of the rebellion. He’d read every announcement from both sides as they had come out, with the scathing accusations barely veiled behind the grand, formal rhetoric. Mittermeyer’s presence would complicate things severely—and then where would they be? Would the conflict blossom out of control and suck in the civilian population of the former Alliance? Would a Galactic Empire led by Reuenthal and Mittermeyer be more antagonistic towards the republicans or less?

Yang shook his head, dispelling the thoughts that threatened to spiral into further confusion. He removed the strainer from his tea and took it into the sunken living room, though not before adding a splash of brandy to fortify himself against the political conversation he knew he could not hope to avoid.

Murai had returned to the lone armchair he’d taken when he first arrived, while Julian and Frederica sat on the remaining small couches. Yang sat next to Frederica, on the couch against the exposed brick wall bordering the kitchen, curling his feet under him and leaning over to rest his head on her shoulder. He realized belatedly that he might be undercutting her authority with such a display of affection, but she didn’t seem to mind, and besides it was comfortable. She fondly pressed her cheek to his hair for a second, then passed him the tablet with Reuenthal’s offer on it. Yang skimmed through it, half-reading, half-listening to the others talk.

“He placed Minister Elsheimer, and a few others who refused to cooperate, under house arrest, but otherwise he hasn’t involved the Neue Land civilian population at all,” Murai was saying. Presumably Julian or Frederica had thought to ask the same question Yang had, which pleased him.

“That’s good to hear,” Julian said brightly, and then sank into thought, a slightly regretful frown flitting across his face.

Murai looked over to Yang and, without a hint that he cared about his former superior’s informality, said coolly into the silence, “Now that you’re here, Your Excellency, I need to mention Marshal Reuenthal’s specific offer to you.”

“To me?” Yang frowned, not looking up. He was still on the section of the letter describing the return of former Alliance territory to the republicans, and nothing had mentioned him specifically yet.

“Yes. He invited you to join him.”

Yang could not suppress a groan of dismay. He did not want to be involved directly in any political situations right now, much less an Imperial civil war. “Was he being serious?”

Murai shrugged. “Hard to tell. He did append a note to you on the written offer, at the very end there.”

Yang sat up to take a sip of his spiked tea—the waxy golden heat of it filling his throat was an invigorating counterpoint to the delicate herbal flavor of the tea itself—and skimmed through the document until he reached the small nested subsection with his name on it.

The message, once he opened it, was almost incoherently terse, as if Reuenthal had typed out a much longer letter and then deleted most of it. 

_I realize that we are only briefly acquainted, but I would like to think that we share certain similarities. The commonality I would like to draw attention to here is that we have both, at different times, been forced into the position of opposing Kaiser Reinhard, with all of the trauma and rewards that entails. I would appreciate being able to call on your expertise and alliance in the coming conflict, if you will favor me with it. You will receive whatever military position you feel is appropriate, and I would be honored to have you be part of my future government, if I am successful. I hope that you have enjoyed the tea I sent you._

_Yours, Oskar von Reuenthal_

Yang set the tablet down on the coffee table, possibly slightly more forcefully than he should have, and collapsed back into the couch with a sigh. Real frustration was clamping down on his jaw, and he started twirling a stray lock of his hair almost frantically to occupy his fingers with something harmless. Reuenthal’s proposition was serious, at least on some level. Yang couldn’t imagine the man taking the time to write something like this with the sole purpose of fucking with him. But he must have known, _had_ to have known, that Yang would not be interested. Their acquaintance had been brief, but not so brief that they hadn’t gotten the measure of each other. Even if Yang hadn’t been able to get the scent of his motives, surely Reuenthal was astute enough to realize Yang’s primary goal was peace and would unquestionably say no to an offer to get involved in an impulsive internecine conflict. Especially not this one, which seemed to have no purpose other than the spectacular and gory sacrifice of one or both of the two strongest commanders in the galaxy, along with most of their soldiers. His shock, lingering formlessly for the past several weeks, was starting to precipitate into genuine anger, and unreasonably personal anger at that. How could Reuenthal have misunderstood him that badly?

“I assume there will be some discussion before you have any answer,” Murai said into the silence that filled the room.

“Not on my part,” Yang said quickly, some of his irritation bleeding into his tone. “Please tell Marshal Reuenthal that I, unfortunately, will be turning down his offer.”

Murai nodded, smiling slightly, and stood. “I’ll be heading out, then. Thank you again for the dinner.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to—we can set up the guest bedroom?” Julian blurted, looking hopefully at Yang and Frederica.

“Thank you, but I have a very nice hotel room near the spaceport. It’s the one thing I let the Empire pay for on this trip,” Murai said. He gave them all a final salute and went out to join Schenkopf on the porch.

Yang drank more of his tea, feeling the weight of Frederica’s and Julian’s gazes on him. He wasn’t getting drunker quickly enough.

“What are your thoughts, Marshal?” asked Julian finally. Yang sighed, and pressed his mouth closed on the first frustrated response that came to mind. He really couldn’t blame Julian for still wanting his guidance. No matter how much of a mind for strategy the boy had, he was still barely into adulthood and hadn’t yet escaped the gravity well of Yang’s influence.

“You know this isn’t something I can decide for you. The only part of this that I have the authority to make a final decision on by myself is the part that applies specifically to me, and I’ve already decided about that.” He took another sip of tea and settled back against Frederica’s side. His anger was fading as quickly as it had coalesced, to be replaced with a familiar sense of fatigue. “Remember, the whole point of democracy is that no one single person can dictate your choices, especially when they concern the fate of the republic. Not even you and Frederica discussing the question here will be the ultimate answer—you’re going to have to bring the proposal and your recommendation for a response to the Planetary Council, and they will have to reach a decision. We may even have to test out that global referendum infrastructure we’ve been setting up and put it to a planet-wide vote. And then once it’s decided, it will go to the republicans on Iserlohn and they may raise objections, prompting further discussion. It’s an involved process for a good reason.”

Julian gave him a frown, albeit a mild one. “So, you’re not even going to give us any advice on something that will decide the future of the republic.”

“Sure I will.” Yang gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “But not until you’ve had a chance to consider the problem for yourself and come to a conclusion independent of me.”

“Well, what if I come to the wrong conclusion?” It was a familiar permutation of an old debate between the two of them—Yang’s insistence on the importance of independent thought frequently came into conflict with Julian’s equally sound belief in the necessity to listen to experts on certain topics. The arguments never reached any resolution, in no small part because Julian frequently pointed to his guardian as one such naturally talented and intelligent expert, a characterization that Yang vehemently denied.

“I’ll let you know if you start heading down a path that will completely destroy the Republic.” Yang closed his eyes and leaned his head on Frederica’s shoulder. There was a pleasant warm weight settling on him—the dose of brandy beginning to take effect. Frederica twisted her arm around to pat his hair. He would have reciprocated her affection somehow, but the heavy sleepiness in his muscles made it too hard to move. “But in the morning.”

Julian was silent, forcing Yang to open an eye to see his reaction. He was nodding, though his mouth was set in a slash of vague disgruntlement and exasperation, incongruent with his youthful face.

“I’m not carrying you up to bed, dear,” Frederica said after a moment, gently elbowing him. Yang grumbled, but pulled himself to his feet and made his slow, stumbling way upstairs. The two of them would be up late discussing the proposal, and he was happy to leave them to it. _The fate of the galaxy is not my problem anymore_ , he thought with considerable relief.

Even so, his mind kept turning back to the situation, frustrating him as he waited to fall asleep in bed. Strangely, the part he couldn’t stop thinking about was the end of Reuenthal’s note to him. _I hope that you have enjoyed the tea I sent you._ And the thing was, Yang had—he’d been forced to ration himself when he realized he was consuming it at such a rate on the journey out from Iserlohn that he would finish an entire crate before they reached Heinessen. He felt vaguely guilty about it now, not quite able to shake the association between the costly Imperial tea and the man who had gifted it to him, but not enough to stop drinking it. If it was a suggestion of bribery, it was shockingly transparent, more so than he would have expected from Reuenthal. It was an odd note to end the message on—strangely personal, out of place next to his grand claims about rebellion and the Kaiser.

Yang tried to push aside the question of Reuenthal and his… Invitation? Request? Proposition? None of the words seemed right to describe his motives. For some reason, the word that Yang’s brain cast up as he slipped slowly off to sleep, still unable to fully uninvest itself in the problem, was _seduction._

But, as he told himself over and over again, it wasn’t his problem anymore, and the word was gone as his consciousness faded into dark dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artifex-- Lat., m. expert, artist, maker, author; adj. skillful, artful.
> 
> thematic song rec: "Only An Expert" by Laurie Anderson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_JQshF4MK8   
> (thematic as in it's the first song on my Yang playlist, not entirely relevant to this chapter specifically in its current form. but a good song.)
> 
> well it's finally up! I promise I haven't abandoned this project or anything, but thanks to a whole variety of factors (including but not limited to external situations, general depression, and me finding almost all of the alliance characters aside from Yang to be vastly less interesting than their Imperial counterparts) this chapter was extremely hard to work on. (no illustration right now for that reason...)
> 
> unfortunately I doubt future updates will be much faster for the next little while... a) i'm currently in the process of moving out of my parent's house and finding an apartment with my partner and b) i've discovered that i don't particularly like exclusively working on things chapter-by-chapter, and have been having a much easier time jumping around between various points of the story and other unrelated projects (one of which i'm actually making some good progress on and will hopefully post something of soon, if you all aren't already tired of all these long-form minor canon divergence AU LOGH fics lol). but maybe now that I can move on from alliance people all sitting around talking and can get to some more exciting content it will go faster? next few chapters are all about reuenthal's very bad unfun rebellion time.
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading, I always appreciate comments etc.! thanks to natalie for the beta read. I'm now @softboypassing on all of my other social media accounts and you can follow me there for more logh content always.


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